


call it what you will (our destiny, our fate)

by Lady_Kaos



Series: golden gods 'verse [4]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Ancient Roman Religion & Lore, Tangled (2010), The Road to El Dorado (2000)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2020-06-25 11:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19745209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Kaos/pseuds/Lady_Kaos
Summary: "Call it what you will, fate, destiny."Or two ex-gods meddling in their lives. Really, what was the difference? Because Flynn's been adopted by the literal lord of thieves and Rapunzel literally has two dads.





	1. it starts with the sun

**Author's Note:**

> Very loosely a crossover with my other El Dorado stories, but this one is intended to fully stand as its own.

It starts with the sun.

Or, more truthfully, with how people _saw_ the sun. Because these people were Romans and a long, _long_ way from home.

Back in those days Gallia Belgica might as well have been the edge of their world. Caesar had just conquered its tribal confederations within their lifetimes, and the Roman yoke still rested uneasily on the shoulders of the survivors. Still, these lands were part of the empire now. There were new subjects to civilize, new cities to found, and new profits to turn.

And these Romans weren't only founding a new settlement on the edge of the world, but _the edge_ of the edge, past even the relatively civilized town behind the thick walls of Durocortorum. Who can blame them for setting up shop on an island when they were afraid could slaughter them all in their sleep?

So what does the sun have to do with this?

Well, look up. No matter where you are in the world, the sun is _there._

Gods in those days weren't as transcendent in those days. They were rooted to their groves and their springs and their temples. They spoke their priests and their oracles, and these settlers were in short supply of both. The sacred places of this land were already inhabited, their names alien. They spoke Gaulish and Germanic and other rough, guttural tongues, for they were not Roman gods.

But still their sun god rose and set as he always did. He gave law and order to their fledgling colony as he had a thousand colonies before. His songs kept the terror at bay and his omens helped perceive the fearful future.

Early on that little town's history, they received one ship a little more ragged by most. By the time the pustules of the sailors had spread behind hiding, and they had begun to die, it was too late for quarantine. All the island was already infected. Their children started to succumb. As they had in the halls of their homeland, they prayed to their sun god for salvation, for he was also a healer and cared most of the young.

Their sun answered them. The one haggard physician still alive followed the omen of a flight of swans, and found the gift of their god. Hidden away on the mainland, in a dark and desolate wood, shone like the sun, for every flower that grew there shone with a drop of his light. Even a single petal could heal the sick. The whole flower could snatch back even those on the verge of death.

Of course, the grove was guarded by something first, some monster or jealous little god. But the sun god slew it for his people, and left them his flowers.

It took near the whole field to purge the town of plague. Only when the panic was over did the horrified Romans realize the flowers were finite. None ever produced seeds and, despite entreaties and sacrifices to their patron god, no one could ever persuade him to grow more in even his sacred grove.

Legend blamed the old thief god. Jealous of the acclaim and attention the sun god received, he tried stealing the flowers for himself, but never succeeded. In his greed he cursed the whole field with his bitterness, so no new seedlings could ever take root.

So the priests and priestess came together to hide the grove away from prying eyes. Instead they dedicated a grand temple to their sun god on the tall peak of their island, to tower above men and lesser gods alike. They erected his image in gold and clad it in rich violet. From miles around the faithful and the desperate came to pray, for word of his miracle had spread far and wide through the empire. In the wake of the prayers followed merchants and traders to capitalize on the fledgling industry.

Over the years, that little town grew into the Crown of Cities. It remained so long after they forgot their gods for God. When the empire crumbled, they were a kingdom unto themselves.

Corona still is, despite what the Prussians and the French and Spanish claim in their little wars.

So do they cling to the image of the sun and the fable of the healing flower. Its etched into the very bedrock of their castle and the ruins of the old temple beneath, into their very souls.

As long as the banner of the Corona flies proudly, then their sun shall never set.

As for the flowers, well...

* * *

The nocturnal wood is silent, except for the pathetic bleating of her lamb. She's not afraid of drawing the wolves no her. No creature but her has dared walk this wood in centuries. Even before the great temple was closed and converted, the stupid townsfolk had always known this forest has belong to the older, the _other,_ though they no longer know his name or else curse him as a demon.

She stops at the very edge of the grove, as drilled into her by her grandmothers. From here she can see the faint glow of the flower, but its powers are not hers to simply take. Its patron would still strike her dead for daring.

So she strips her shoes and washes her bare feet in the cold stream. But first she lets the lamb suckle freely from her water skin, so the brew has plenty of time to take effect. She lets her thick hair fall loose and combs it with myrtle and oils from the distant east, murmuring a steady stream of prayers and benedictions. The chant is ritualistic, not reverential. She is not her grandmothers, so enthralled by their faith, nor even her mother.

He is not a great god, anymore. Only in the backwater villages do his rituals hang on as a shadow of themselves, festivals with his shining face painted crudely on doors and every foolish name invoked but his own. Even there the old ways are fading with the elders in the face of the younger, apathetic youth.

He'll still come when she calls.

"Oh, Theoxenius," she calls breathily as she steps into the grove. She leads the lamb behind her. "Prostaterius. My Paean and Alexicacus, where are you?"

The names are alien to her. What matters is that they matter to him.

Now thoroughly drugged, the lamb offers only a little bleat as she coaxes it to the ground and onto its side. Its dull eyes don't register the gleaming knife in her hand.

"Apollo!" she cries, before bringing the blade down.

Between the spurt of blood on her hands and the lamb's gurgled last breath, he is there.

As much as he can be nowadays, at least. He's still inhumanly handsome, despite the deep hollows in his cheeks and the dark beneath his lusterless eyes. His unbound hair, never cut, looks thin and brittle as straw. His fine clothing are the ragged relics of a bygone age, the athletic body beneath ever so slightly withered from prolonged starvation.

"Oh, you again?" The faded god arches a brow up at leafy trees. "Unusually mild winter we're having, aren't we?"

She pulls a tight smile at the jab. Once she came to him only on the winter solstice, when they were both at their weakest. She walked as a fresh-faced maiden, the toast of cities. Only with the autumn equinox and the fading of the year did she start showing gray in her hair.

Now she comes far more frequently than just once a year. Even with rejuvenation her beauty is... the more _distinguished_ sort. A fine wine, and not a blossom freshly plucked.

"Quite," she icily agrees as she wipes her knife and stands. She ignores his pointed gaze at the dead lamb at her feet.

Beings such as himself should not lower themselves to the material world. Once she burned whole rams so that he might relish the smoke and the savor. Gods are ethereal beings nourished by prayer and vapor, fear and faith. But one can hardly call Apollo a god these days, and she's not risking even a small fire. There's a new settlement far too close by for comfort. They can't spot any smoke rising from what should be desolate wood, no matter how small a puff.

Apollo bites his lip. She wonders if today is the day he'll break, and devour that whole lamb raw. She remembers the old tales. He is no man, no matter how often he assumes the shape for her.

Since she is the only one who bothers shedding blood in his name, he still snatches her hand with distaste before he kneels. The other he lovingly places atop the golden flower, before crooning a song that once moved her to tears. The words are ancient, of some tongue dead long before the time of her grandmothers. Try as she might, she can never manage the song and its spell on her own. The flower gleams like a second sun and new life flows into them both.

Though he drops her hand like a dead fish, Apollo still smiles wistfully down at the last miracle of its kind. "How they believe in you, even now." His eyes narrow when they flick up to her. "Not like you do."

He's right. Corona believes the fairy tale. She lives and breathes it.

"They don't live it like we do, my lord."

Apollo sneers. "Spare me, old hag. You _crave_ its light more than I do. You've been fighting fate longer than I have, and you're only mortal. We both know how this is going to end."

He's still kneeling, so she laughs in his face. There's nothing more he can do to hurt her. "You're absolutely right, _my lord._ It's the flower of the sun the world believes in, not you. We'll both still be here long after you're dead words in a dusty book."

Apollo laughs and laughs. "Yes, hag. You _are_ right. So, before I go, here's a song and a prophecy for the road." His smile sharpens into a smirk, one still harsh enough to send her a twinge of fear. "Only that's a lie. We both already know your addiction to that power will be the death of you, and then you'll just be _dust."_

Between one breath and the next he's gone. She sinks to her own knees in despair, when she realizes he's never coming back, no matter how fervent her pleading prayers. Even if she stains this whole grove red in blood.

Yet Apollo is still a god of his word, for only then does the inspiration come in a tongue she understands.

_"Flower gleam and glow, let your power shine. Make the clock reverse, bring back what once was mine... what once was mine."_

When the flower gleams on its own, she grins her triumph, for on her own she has sung the song true. What use are prayers or lambs or gods, when she has what matters most?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a translation: "Oh God of Foreigners. He Who Stands Before the Entrance. My Healer and My Averter of Evil, where are you?"
> 
> Gallia Belgica is a bit of an odd duck as far as Roman provinces go. Parts of it are still today held by Luxembourg and Germany. Even greater parts of it were held by the Hapsburg Empire and the ungodly lines of what was the Spanish Netherlands. The ambiguity of what's what culturally and linguistically... works for me ;) Because Corona is enough of a mishmash on its own without worrying about the crossover.


	2. everything was perfect (and then the moment ended)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only mentioning this once, but this story has no connection to the Tangled cartoon. It's nice that it exists, but I'm familiar with the movie only, and so only recognize that as canon here.

His morning begins much like any other; running for his life.

"Get back here, you treacherous son of a -"

Tulio barely clears the fence post before it explodes beneath him. Hm. Keen eye that angry wife has. Still charming as ever, he turns to give her debauched husband a final salute, and cuts across the sheep field before she can line up another shot.

He runs until he's gasping for breath, because fatigue is a thing for even him now. Winding down from the giddy high of a successful escape, he laughs to the empty air beside him. "Hey, did you... see..." He groans and smacks his own forehead. "And you're doing it again, idiot."

No one's there. No one's been there in centuries. No one's ever gonna be there. Maybe he'd find out where they all went, if he wasn't too cowardly to cling to this pathetic scrap of existence.

But, rude awakening aside, the dawn looks pretty promising. So Tulio fixes his shirt, sticks his hands in his pockets, and wanders the roads he knows like the back of his hand. Sometimes the quiet countryside is just what he needs, with only bird song and lowing livestock to put his mind at ease. Until the solitude then threatens to drive him nuts, and pushes him back to the happy chaos of Corona proper.

Everything is going okay. Then he hears a faint, heart-wrenching sound that stops him in his tracks. Tulio grinds his teeth and clenches his fists in a stranglehold.

It's an orphaned lamb, a wounded rabbit, anything but what he already knows it is...

"Oh, _come ON!"_

Because it's a baby. Of course it is. A newborn, at that, with a little nub of an umbilical cord and a filthy blanket he's kicked his way free of. An exposed infant, in these times? Hadn't these people at least moved past that? Apparently not this baby's parents. Or grandparents, because some old bastards are just like that.

An old, cruel part of him whispers to leave the baby to nature, to give the wolves their tithe. The reasonable majority tells it to shut the fuck up, and then he scoops the baby up.

He's only awkward for a moment, before centuries of experience reassert themselves, and the weight settles comfortably in his expert arms. The baby is blue and shivering, almost too weak to cry. Too bad there aren't any more convenient nymphs or minor goddesses to foist him off on. But Tulio does have a clean shirt to wrap him in, and a vague idea where to go next. Sometimes in the wanderings he can lose track of the time. He hopes it's only been months, and not years.

Thankfully his destination is only in the next village over. By then the kid is a screaming bundle in his arms, because the warmth has woken him up a little. Tulio bounces him as best he can, because it's not warmth the kid is crying for now. He smiles politely back and walks past the villagers giving them strange looks. If she's not here or just doesn't have the milk to spare, then groveling in the village square for a ready breast is his next best option.

Normally Tulio would stride right in. Considering the nature of his request he has the courtesy to knock. He sighs in relief when a pretty if harried young mother answers the door, because there's a surly toddler just at weaning age on her hip.

"Hey," he tries.

Janna's deadpan stare drifts from him to the kid and back. "It's not mine, is it?"

He rolls his eyes. "Haha. Can you help me out here? If not, I'll just-"

"Please," she drawls. "I'm gossip fodder with or without you crawling back here. So get inside before I drag you in."

Tulio promptly obeys. They switch kids. The toddler angrily wails and snatches after the tiny little trespasser at _her_ mother's breast. He puts up with her kicks and bites with manly winces. When he can't take it anymore he pulls out a copper coin and pretends to take it from behind her ear. She gapes at him before giggling and clapping for another.

Tulio obeys, because the girl is Janna's daughter. She and her mother both watch his little coin tricks, one enraptured and the other idly amused.

"Still quick with your fingers, I see."

He shrugs and pointedly doesn't ask if her good for nothing husband ever came back. A quick look at this cottage tells him that's not the case. "It's what I do."

"Is he yours?"

"Nope. Found him by the side of the road bawling his eyes out."

Janna stares past his nimble hands and into his soul. "Really? Because at the door you seem no stranger asking women to nurse random babies."

"I'm not," he answers truthfully, as he seemingly turns one coin into three. "You'd be surprised how many people foist orphans and abandoned babies on you when you agree to take one on."

"Orphans," she scoffs. "You _sure_ you don't have little Tulios of your own out there somewhere?"

"I don't," he says levelly, as the coins fall limply back into his hand.

He doesn't _have_ kids. He had them, once. If they ever existed at all.

"Oh," mumbles Janna in quiet apology.

They both fall silent for a long while. The toddler's plaintive whining doesn't keep Tulio still for long, though. With increasingly elaborate sleights of hand, he falls out of rhythms reserved for hoodwinking crowds and into something older, more earnest. His grand finale is to roll up his sleeves and quite clearly pluck a coin from thin air. That one, he lets the little girl keep.

It's ancient, something that can't be found these days outside of a curio cabin, and the face on the back brings him pain. But gold's still gold. Janna will realize that long after he and the kid are gone. There has to be someone out there willing and able to take on another mouth to feed. And Tulio's not just dumping him off at an orphanage to starve with the rest of the unwanted children. He owes his personal charges better than that.

"He needs a name," Janna murmurs when the baby boy at least pulls away from her.

Tulio eyes her warily. "You're asking me?"

"You saved his life, didn't you?"

"W-W-Well... you've actually named a kid before!"

"Exactly," Janna argues, "and I named her _Ernestine."_

Tulio opens his mouth, considers her point... and closes it. Until serendipity strikes.

"Eugene."

Janna, without his class, snerks a laugh. Leaving her daughter to play with her newfound fortune on the floor, he stands up to snatch his kid from her arms. "What's so funny about it?" he gripes, affronted on the kid's behalf. "It's a good name!"

"Look, Tulio, I know you're Greek or Spanish or whatever, but... the kid isn't. Do you really want to saddle him with a name like that?"

"Well born," Tulio murmurs. "It means 'well born.' He will be. Eventually. No matter what it takes to get him there."

Eugene. Eugene Fitzherbert. The well-born son of the illustrious warrior. If that's not an auspicious name, then Tulio's eating his own dice.

* * *

He has sent for doctors from the finest institutions, from Vienna to London. He has resorted to herbalists and holy men. Now there is nothing to do but pray, and pray the King of Corona does.

The Lord does not seem to be hearing him as of late, so King Frederic prays to those that might intercede on his behalf. There is Saint Margaret of Antioch and Saint Brigit, protectors of women with child and midwives. He even beseeches Saint Erasmus and Saint Raymond Nonnatus, for their earthly suffering gives them unique empathy for the expecting and unborn. Most especially, he pleads to Saint Anne and the Blessed Virgin, the mothers God must surely heed above all others.

When Arianna's condition only worsens, and the doubtful begin praying for her soul rather than a safe delivery, Frederic resorts to... other intermediaries. Those no true church will recognize, yet hailed by the people all the same. Saint Aelia and Saint Shepherd are merely folk saints of dubious provenance, but still his poorest people maintain their humble roadside shrines and carry out their feast days. Maybe, as king of those folk, they'll listen to him too.

Frederic does not pray to them behind sanctified walls, of course. He's not _that_ unorthodox. Besides, his own physicians have gently banned him from even the castle's private chapel for the time being, for all the hours he has spent knelt upon its freezing stone floors.

Arianna and her unborn heir are a pragmatic loss for Corona. It is Frederic they hail as king, Frederic with no close relatives to succeed him, and so many distant cousins wed to the great powers eager to swallow their little realm whole.

_"O Saint Aelia, beloved of the people, may you hear me now. Be patient and gentle with us, as you have been to the poor and the pagan, and see us through our night. And, Saint Shepherd, whose christened name Saint Aelia keeps, guide use through our fear as your once guided our... Our Lady of the Streets. May you bring us light a-and-"_

The doors to his chambers fly open. Frederic's words die on his lips. He silently rises from his kneeling. His men only know he has prayed, not _whom_ he pleaded to.

"My liege," the highest-ranked of them rushes out. "We found it!"

Frederic's breath hitches. He refuses to hope until he sees the legend for himself.

It is not merely a yellow-colored flower. No. Sunlight flows through its very petals, for his expedition has oh so carefully transplanted it back whole and alive.

Even when the entire flower is severed from its stem, its glow never fades. Instead it radiates like sunshine through the bowl.

On its own the bowl contains only a simple broth, to make the medicine more palatable and hopefully bring some nourishment back to Arianna. With the sun drop, however...

Arianna, barely conscious, is too weak to take the broth herself. It is Frederic who most gently prop up her head, and tilt the bowl to her mouth.

Her first sip barely tastes the broth. On the second, her eyelids flutter.

With the third, she tilts up his hand and swallows the flower whole.

The empty vessel clatters to the floor. Arianna twines her fingers in his. For the first time in days, her eyes are clear, and she _sees_ him.

"Arianna?" Frederic whispers, scarce believing his eyes.

He can say nothing more, for his queen closes the distance between them to snag his lips in a kiss like they are once more carefree children. She pulls away with a fond smile. "Oh, _Fred_. Did you find us your miracle after all?"

Frederic manages only a shaky nod before doing his best to envelop her in his arms, no matter the awkward angle. Together they reverently place their hands on her swollen belly, where their unborn child has fallen so worriedly still as of late.

At their touch the babe inside wriggles and kicks, letting their parents know in no uncertain terms they are very much alive.

Their smiles light up the dreary chambers far brighter than the flower ever could.

* * *

Corona rejoices at their queen's miraculous recovery. So great is their joy that most overlook the almost glaring absence of who such a blessing should be attributed to.

There is little time for them to wonder, for their princess is born a week later, at summer's height. She is hearty and hale, already with a thick head of golden hair. Frederic and Arianna smile at the sign of good fortune, even if the old midwives murmur babies almost always shed out such hair in their first few weeks. More unusual is how the little girl's eyes are already a striking shade of green almost like her mother's.

She is the blessed fruit of a royal marriage, an heir for the kingdom long after many people had given up of there ever being one. Most importantly, she is loved beyond all else.

By all three of her parents.

Corona Castle has a royal nursery and no shortage of nursemaids to attend to their princess' every need. Frederic and Arianna, however, prefer to keep their little girl in their own chambers. They are soothed by her small murmurs of breath as she sleeps and her gurgling laughter when she wakes. When she cries, they are there in seconds.

On the dawning of the princess' first day of life, the king and queen awaken to a pattering on their balcony window. It's barely sunrise, and a little golden oriole keeps fluttering into the glass as if this will be the time he finally flies through it.

Thinking him confused by his reflection, Arianna rises to shoo him away. Even when she politely knocks on the glass, he sets his beady eyes on her and raps his beak against the glass once more. At a loss, she opens the door and only succeeds in letting him in. He flutters to the stand connecting the mobile to the crib, lands, and promptly starts to serenade the fussy princess beneath. Her first wondering coo is like laughter to their ears.

It's as good an omen as one can get in Corona, especially for the newborn that will one day reign as queen.

The oriole hovers through the day. He flits back when Frederic and Arianna see to their baby, but at her smallest cry he's atop the mobile again to try singing and soothing her. When he finally flies off for good at dusk they are bemused and file the day away as an odd story to tell their little girl when she's old enough to appreciate it.

The oriole's back the next morning. And the morning after that. By the seventh day both of them have accepted the bird as a new fixture to their lives. Their morning routines now include taking turns to let the little bird, because they're afraid he'll dash his brains out on the glass or eventually peck his way through if they don't. And he's there every morning, rain or shine.

Those blissful weeks are the best of their lives. Every day holds a new surprise, their little girl's first laugh and her first smile. Every day sees the oriole back, with a new song to make their princess laugh. Or lighten Frederic's heavy heart, or make Arianna remember that one odd ruling that shall at last help them solve that little legal matter that's been confounding them for weeks. It's a golden age for the court's poets and musicians. It's the time when one old physician realizes that the pustules of cowpox might hold the riddle to forever inoculating against deadly smallpox.

Then comes the night the balcony door swings open of its own accord. Even on the mild summer nights, Frederic and Arianna never leave the door open. They are king and queen, and who knows what unpleasant things the night air might bring in.

They are awakened by the sound of their daughter's crying. And open their eyes to a nightmare.

Perched on the balcony, a dark blot in the moonlight, is a hag out of the children's tales. In her gnarled old hands she clutches their baby girl.

Frederic and Arianna erupt from bed. They charge the intruder even as their furious voices call for the guards.

The thief vanishes in a swirl of her cloak. With them goes their ray of sunshine.

Their soldiers and their spy networks and all the ransom money in their rich coffers turn up nothing, not even a little body with long golden hair. It's like the hag evaporated into thin air, like all bad dreams do when thrown into the light of day.

Once more desperation drives Frederic to his knees, to pray to powers no Christian should pray to.

For now, his prayers go unanswered. He has faith the miracle will come.

It did once, after all.

Until then, Frederic and Arianna breathe their hopes and prayers and secrets in the floating lanterns they release every night on the day of their daughter's birth, the night of her disappearance.

One day, their daughter will follow their faith and their prayers home.

Neithe Frederic or Arianna see the little oriole again. He never comes the dawning after their daughter's vanishing, or once in all the long years since.

They pray they followed their daughter, wherever she may be, to sing her all of the love and laughter they cannot.

* * *

She endures over an entire year without _her_ flower, no matter the cost. The blood and the rites keep her alive, if perpetually old and hideous after those first few days. She needs the time to map out the castle and build up her minuscule powers. She needs the king and queen to grow complacent with their little brat, to ease up on the patrols in the street and the guards stationed by their chambers.

When the brat is a year old, she can endure no longer. Up she skitters like a shadow on the castle walls. The night wind obligingly opens the door for her.

She has never, ever wanted the child itself. Why would she want a squalling, ungrateful mouth to feed? Why would she want to bring down the entire royal army down upon her head?

No. She has only ever wanted a lock of hair, one far smaller and easier to keep than that fickle flower had ever been.

Yet, when she makes the cut, the power seeps out of the hair and steals her regained youth with it. Dread shivers down her back when even the lock on the brat's head shrivels and turns an ugly, mousy brown.

With no other option, she snatches the child. At least she has the perfect hiding place for it.

Corona's mainland is littered with old forts and castles, remnants of the many armies that once staked their claim upon the kingdom. One desolate tower, long abandoned and swallowed by the wood, is the perfect place to sequester the curious brat until she drills some proper fear and obedience into her.

As a royal the brat already has far too many names, each as pretentious and problematic as the last. Of course she uses none of them. She calls the girl Rapunzel instead, as long and ungainly a name as there is, and one for that nasty vegetable she never liked as a child herself.

She has gone by countless names over the centuries, so many now that all, even her original, mean nothing to her. It's more than time to take up a new one. She can't steal and forage all the supplies needed to tend to a growing girl on her own, after all.

The rural villages have feared that hideous hag that has stolen into their farms to snatch away lambs and calves for months now. Yet they also pity that beautiful widow who comes into town to trade herbs and a bit of healing for food to feed her growing girls. Just like they do the saintly sister that tends to her abandoned nieces and nephews, and the woman of the cloth doing her best to tend to the poor and unwanted children of the realm.

More often than not, they call her Gothel. Godmother.

Considering where a part of the kid came from, it's as good a name as any.

If only _darling_ old Apollo was still around to get the joke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Corona is in 1700s Europe, folks. Christianity is a very much a Thing then, even if obviously the part it will have to play is unorthodox at best. So are folk saints, even more than they are today. Not recognized by any church authority, they're an odd mix of local and layman traditions with Christian underpinnings. Seriously. France still has a folk saint that's just one very Good Dog. And, especially in a lot of New World folk saints, a heavy dash of other cults. Christianity, no matter the sect, is a syncretic faith same as any other. Even all folk saints that may or may not play a part are as entirely fictional as Corona itself :p 
> 
> Don't bother asking if Corona still keeps to Catholicism or some unique mix of Protestantism. I'm not sure myself :p Considering the state of this vague area in Europe at this time, it could be anything.
> 
> There is at least one Saint Aelia in real life. This is not that Saint Aelia ; )
> 
> All actual saints mentioned are medieval or earlier figures that would (and sometimes still are) called upon for the protection in pregnancy, childbirth, and infancy. St. Anne is the mother of Mary and so grandmother of Christ.
> 
> Rapunzel is ultimately a German name for rampion, then utilized heavily as a vegetable in earlier times. The plant itself may or may not have vague fertility aspects, just as Gothel may or may not actually mean godmother.


	3. sadistic (and grotesquely optimistic)

Up until last night, she had known only light and love and laughter. Now she knows the smothering darkness of a cloak and the harsh hand that clamps down on her mouth. She knows thirst and fear, for her cries are silenced whenever she tries to let this strange new person know her needs.

The hours pass in a distant, dizzying blur. Cold oatmeal is shoved into her cheeks and water dribbled into her mouth. She sits in her filth until the cloth diaper is thrown away in disgust. For what might be the first and last time, she coos in the wonder at the rocking motions of the galloping horse beneath her carrier and the dappled light of the woods.

And then there is the tower, and only the tower.

Her poor excuse of a second mother leaves her in a makeshift crib so she can't roll away and dash her brains out on the stone floor. She is gone for hours, because Gothel must gather up supplies, and certainly can't do it with the realm's most wanted bundled in her arms.

The girl, newly named Rapunzel, howls as her stomach rumbles and her mouth goes dry. Perhaps, if she cries louder than she ever has before, her true parents will come.

Without fail, one finally does. He flutters through the cracks in the window to alight upon her chest. His song is fast and frantic, filled with such desperation she goes quiet for a moment.

Then she starts crying again. She appreciates the song, really, but it's it what she needs right now.

The reassuring weight on her chest falls away. Thinking herself abandoned once more, she skews her eyes shut for the cry to end all cries.

And hiccups with confusion when a set of hands, warm as the afternoon sun through her window at home, pick her up instead. Even as she comfortably settles into his arms, she peeps up in utter bafflement into teary eyes green as her own. Despite being dimmed from sadness, his face still shines with a radiance of its own.

"Shush. I'm here, love, I'm here. I promise, it's going to be alright..."

With a sigh she relaxes fully. Even like this, she knows his voice and his warmth. His constant murmuring is almost soothing as his song.

Rapunzel does not know his gibbering to be on the edge of hysteria. She listens in contentment as he glances at the open window, dismisses the opportunity, and makes for the stairway. It will not be walled up for many months, not until Gothel realizes her darling charge on the verge of walking.

They make it to the staircase and all the way down. He thrusts the ancient door with barely a squeak of protest. She tastes fresh air and squints in the sunlight.

It's nearly her last moment. As his foot crosses the threshold his whole being spasms and shakes with the force of his stifled screams. He collapses to his knees, clinging to her in a death grip, but does not drop her. She'd be dead the moment her skull smashed against that stone floor, and even he would not be able to save her.

He leaps back onto the last stair, the terrible shudders in his frame finally falling still. He sinks onto the step and breathes long and hard, never letting go.

Then he rambles long and hard in words Rapunzel can't understand, because it's all in Greek and Latin and Lycian. Frustrated as he is, he's not cursing to innocent ears. At long last he stands up again, muttering about witches and wards and wicked things. It's all nonsense to her.

She watches in bewilderment as he hops back and forth across the doorway on his own, as he flutters in on golden wings and squeezes through holes as a little mouse. Then she enters the equation, as he make faces to gauge what windows and holes in the rafters are large enough to pop her through. He tries a thousand ways to smuggle her out with him, and finds a thousand ways to fail.

When the spectacle stops being amusing, she whimpers to remind him of higher priorities.

"I know, _I know._ Just was trying to get the hard part out of the way first."

He brings her up the tower stairs once more. Making a face at the haphazard cradle, he arranges it to be as safe as it can be, and gently lowers her back in.

Right back where she started, and still no less hungry, she stares accusingly at him. His face crumbles as he promises to be right back, really. In the blink of an eye she's alone again. With a huff of outrage, she _really_ pulls out all the stops, to scream the roof down around her head.

This time it works. Not even a minute later, he's back. Up into his arms she goes. He tries dribbling the golden liquid into her mouth, but she's so fed up at this point she just snatches the rag to suck for herself.

For a moment, so surprised by the taste of milk sweetened honey, she blinks. The warm sweetness pools down her mouth, soothing a throat sore from crying. She gobbles it all up.

He smiles in satisfaction, not guilty in the slightest he raided that farmer's hive and dairy stores. Serves him right for spitting on that beggar earlier, anyway.

"Not exactly nectar and ambrosia, but best we have nowadays. I promise I'll be back in no time, with someone that can actually _help."_

Down she goes and off she flies. Tears dried and belly full, she drifts peacefully into a nap.

She awakens some hours later, when her second mother finally returns. By then Rapunzel is hungry enough to halfheartedly take her sweetened porridge without a murmur of complaint.

A knot of worry unspools in Gothel's stomach when she affirms her little flower can survive without whatever luxuries she was fed in the castle off a silver spoon. The hard parts are done, for her little flower needs no special care and the enchantments she has wove long and thick around these tower walls stand unbroken. Now comes only making this desolate tower into a home, a gilded cage.

The protections embedded into the stone are the subtle and gentle sort. It would do Gothel no good to have the king's armies assailing a swirling hot spot of dark magic without his own borders. Even if such wards, while powerful in their own way, lack... more effective deterrents.

No matter. Gothel will rear little Rapunzel well. By the time she's grown, she'll obediently trail her mother's every footstep, and then all the world shall be their hiding place.

* * *

The woods are crawling with disciplined, desperate royal shoulders specifically on the lookout for little golden-haired girls. Getting her home safe and sound should be no problem at all.

If only literally _everything else_ was not conspiring against him!

_"Oh, come on! She's right over here, you blind f-"_

Not that his cursing goes anywhere. Because he is a bird twittering obscenities as he pecks this man's helmet and, as a last resort, flies into his eyes. For all his struggles Miguel ends up swatted into a bush.

Stupid, spoiled, ignorant city boy. Any country boy his age would have damn well known to listen when an oriole came calling. Who knows the message they could be carrying.

No matter his shape, from insistent oriole to giant honking stag, he is ignored or shooed away or shot at. Yet, even when he finds amenable eyes and ears, they all ineffably fail. They follow him up until a certain point, until their eyes glaze over and they wander any which way but toward their princess. Stupid enchantments. Even the bushes that shape themselves into an arrow and the words _'Lost princess that way'_ goes ignored by mortal eyes that simply cannot see.

Miguel can do subtle too, so he tries a hundred indirect ways into bypassing the wards. He startles horses down the path or casts an enticing ray of sunlight just so upon it. It works, up until riders rein their mounts under control or commanders chide their troops for daydreaming.

Fed up, Miguel rolls his eyes, and tries the last resort. He singles out a solitary soldier, when more fervent with his faith than most, and draws his horse away from the main party. Only then does he go for the full apparition, a direct divine message from above.

And accidentally leaves the poor man a gibbering mess. Oops.

Maybe the man had been a little _too_ fervent in his faith. Or maybe...

It might not be faith or fickle magic at all. And it's time he stops denying it.

It's fate. Icky, sticky fate, and it's woven its strands thick all around Gothel and his little girl. He can struggle against it all he wants. He's just another fly caught in the web.

Miguel, of course, clenches his fists and snarls up at the sun and the sky and the forest shadows. "You can't have her!" he snarls. "Not now, not ever!"

In the distance grow the alarmed calls of the patrol, seeking a missing comrade when they had ridden off to seek a missing princess. Bemusedly Miguel blinks, before shifting apologetically down to the catatonic man at his feet. He helps him up, brush the dust off his armor and tries his best to set his mind to rights. Even for him the human psyche is a touchy subject at best.

"Sorry about this all, old boy," he tries with an attempt at a grin. "None of that has anything to do with being angry toward you. You're doing your best to find the princess, and we're all very proud of you. Keep up the good work, and never give up hope."

He vanishes at that, and leaves the pieces fall where they will.

* * *

The kid is hungry. Again.

Stupid babies and their stupid tiny stomachs.

He heaves a long-suffering sigh. "You know, kid, I was capable of feeding myself on day one. Just to let you know." In his sling Eugene whimpers. "I know _,_ kid, I _know._ Can you wait a few more minutes? Potential home number..." Eh, who's keeping count nowadays? "Well, your new home is just around the corner!"

Eugene squirms violently, with the whine that threatens to build up into a wail. Tulio shushes him, frantically taking him out the sling to hopefully bounce him back into silence.

"Okay, Eugene, okay. Give me a moment here!"

Not that Tulio has anything on him, of course. The kid would have eaten him out of house and home, if he had either. It's too early in the year for ripe berries or anything good on the roadside. Fortunately, there should be a family nearby willing to him help out again. Even if the matriarch _is_ a bit of a bitch.

So Tulio veers away from the crossroads and nimbly clears the fence and wanders into the nearby wood. Maybe the den is a little near a human road, even one that's not exactly well-traveled, but the family is well-adept at keeping themselves hidden. They've been running circles around the farmers and their traps for generations.

One by one the pack melt out of the shadows. Some excitedly rush him with frantic yips, because they're just overgrown puppies and Eugene's nursemates from the year before. With wagging tails they sniff him and the kid in his arms. Eugene giggles and reaches out to them.

Tulio rolls his eyes and hefts the kid out of reach. _"No,_ I'm not bringing you dinner. If you even think about it, I'm making you into a nice new blanket for him." He nods at a questioning one from the sensible female pup. "Yes, this indeed Eugene. Human kids just grow stupidly so."

Their father stands guard over the entrance to the den. One fierce snarl has his older pups whining and pealing away into submissive poses. Tulio, not in the mood for a pissing contest when his own kid is on the verge of a breakdown, growls right back. The old male lowers his tail and slinks out of the way.

Squirming into a dirt hole in the ground is awkward at the best of times in this shape, much less with a hungry kid in his arms. Fortunately Eugene is just big enough now that Tulio can put him on his back and push him into slowly, painfully crawling forward himself. The matriarch, with three squirming bundles of fluff at her belly, barks a greeting to the kid before baring her furious fangs at Tulio. Eugene, foisted off onto far stranger nursemaids, happily burrows his way in.

Tulio rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I know. Sorry to drop in, but well, you know. Kids. Considering all I've let you and your kids get away with around here, taking mine for an hour is the least you could do."

The she-wolf snaps her teeth. As with human women, he weathers her rant gracefully before bowing out. She _likes_ his kid. No one's eating him under her scary, scary watch.

Out of the den he crawls and back to the crossroad. If he's kept track, Therese should be getting up there in years, but still have enough left in her to take in another stray. The last one should have long grown up and flew the coop. And she should be just... around the... corner.

"Oh, you've _got_ to be kidding me!"

The last potential home had twelve hungry mouths to compete with, the one before that abandoned, and the one before _that_ infested with grouchy spiders. This one at least has no spiders, because it is now a smoldering wreck.

Tulio sighs, hefts up his sleeves, and goes to look for survivors. He finds, well...

"Hey, Therese."

The old woman grunts as he helps her up. "Well, thank you, young man. So glad that at least one young man has standards in this age of _ruffians._ I swear-" Therese, still with the canny glint to her eyes that had attracted him in the first place, squints up at him. "Tulio. _Tulio!_ Is that _you?_ You've scarcely aged I day, since I lost saw..." Therese's eyes flick to the burning remains of her home, before gazing up at him with new eyes. "A-Ah. I see."

Tulio inclines his head.

Therese purses her lips at the horizon. "Neither place has ever really... appealed to me. I don't suppose you could... show me what else there is too see?"

With a gallant smile, he offers his arm like a true gentleman. "Well, I might have something in mind."

She hesitates, gazing past her home to the empty, burning barn. "I suppose it's too late to send a prayer your way for poor old Bess."

Tulio winks. "For me, it's never too late."

At last, Therese takes his arm. As she does the years the fall away. She is young and proud once more, free from the years and the toil. Together they stride away from her ruined farm and down the crossroads, to what awaits.

* * *

The farmer next door to poor old widow Therese's has seen the smoke. Even as he rallied up his boys for a rescue, he'd already known it was too late. So they've left her body where it lays after dragging it from the burning cottage. There are fresh prints in the dirt from where the thieves have taken her animals. Maybe, just maybe, they can at least bring the murders to justice.

He and the boys find the perpetrators all right. All three are trapped up a tree, terrified of what waits beneath.

"Bess?" the farmer blurts out.

With a placid moo the dairy cow looks up from where she's grazing. She knows him and the sound of his voice. The sight of three thieves, treed by a _heifer,_ is almost enough to make him laugh.

Then his youngest notices the gore on Bess' legs, just as his oldest realizes _exactly_ what that trampled mess at her hooves actually is. Or had been, before he had prodded over seven hundreds of angry animal.

"God works in mysterious ways, indeed," the farmer mutters. Even, if as he says it, he knows that's not quite right either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's why Miguel didn't just take the kid and run : (
> 
> Tulio's attempt to find Home #39 for baby Eugene should have ended with the hilarious sort of fire or something. Then my muse threw the highwayman and death by dairy cow at me. Because it takes a miracle for the cards to align and wind up trapped in the sort of bar where every thief can be swayed by a musical number.


	4. looking out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Growing up in a tower with only Mother for company isn't so easy.
> 
> At least her Daddy is there help where he can.

Even when Miguel fights a losing battle to get his little girl found and rescued, he regretfully enjoys his personal time with her. _A lot._ He can be a hundred miles away, trying to spell it for the disbelieving crowds exactly where they can find their lost princess, and hear her sniffle. No matter where he is, for her he's a heartbeat away, in a way he can never be with Arianna and Frederic hovering vigilantly nearby. Those long, long hours in the tower allow him the freedom to hold and rock her, to do all a father should for his child.

And that time passes far too quickly. With a few short days Gothel has gathered her supplies and settled her affairs. Her mind free of distractions, she more readily notices what she ignored before; the the dangerous things raised out of reach of a baby's grasping hands, the window opened or shut against a sudden dankness or draft, how Rapunzel is suspiciously clean and fed for all those long hours left unattended by her hands.

There can be no more orioles to serenade his daughter at dawn. No, because Gothel knows _him_ all too well. There can't even be little mice to sneak a cuddle good morning. Miguel tries that once, and only once. Gothel's shriek at what sneaked into her little flower's cradle drives him deaf even before her pest control spell sends him rocketing out of the tower. He smells like smoke for _weeks_ after that. Fortunately he chased all the tower's old residents out weeks ago when Rapunzel first came here, otherwise they'd all be charred little spots on the ground.

Fine, _fine._ Miguel grudgingly concedes the physical tower off-limits, because there's no way he's letting himself get discovered and banished permanently. The balance on that one-sided battle shifted a _long_ time ago. It's not a god against a sorcerer, anymore. It's a very desperate witch freshly fed on ancient magical power against a... Miguel, who does small things, who is more a whisper in the human conscience than an outright force of nature.

He's also not abandoning Rapunzel to that witch, either. Not while he still exists in any way, shape, or form.

* * *

It's late, late enough that the fire's guttered out and even Mother's gone to bed. Rapunzel should be in bed too. Part of her really, really wants to be. But she hasn't pretended to lay there with her eyes shut for nothing.

So she tip-toes past Mother, quiet as she can be. Her stupid hair still _shushes_ over the ground. She really wants to tie it back, but Mother gets upset about it. So Rapunzel didn't ask, even though today had been her birthday.

This year she's strong enough to wrestle the shudders open all her own, just like she's tall enough to peer over the window. She's just in time to watch the stars rise like soap bubbles over the mountains to join the others. They're the special ones, because they only come out tonight, of all nights in the year. Rapunzel gasps in delight, leaning against the windowsill to watch their ascent.

"I _knew_ it," she whispers.

Before they're all gone, she does her best to get the shutters close and scurries up the stairs. Rapunzel freezes, heart pounding, when that one stupid one creaks treacherously beneath her. Behind her she hears Mother's covers shift. But then she goes still, so Rapunzel races back to bed, and not just to stay out of trouble.

Her dreams are the best part of the day.

Because...

Because...

_Because Rapunzel wakes up on clouds like fat, squishy pillows. Sometimes she can bounce on them all night. Right now, however, she uses them to immediately spring into waiting arms with a delighted cry of "Daddy!"_

_Daddy spins her around with a big, bright smile just like her own. He has her eyes too, and her hair, though his is a lot shorter. Rapunzel wishes she could cut her hair too. She can't, though. Then all the magic goes away. Her plants a kiss on her head. Rapunzel giggles, because his whiskers always tickle. Bearded kisses are the best!_

" _Good night, Rapunzel," he sings to her. "My sunshine, my light of my life, my princess. Did you have a very happy birthday?"  
_

_"The best!" she cries. "Mother made hazel nut soup just for me, and got me paint so I can make ALL the walls pretty, and, and-"_

_"Let you stay up way past your bedtime?" Daddy finishes archly._

_Rapunzel rolls her eyes. "Of course not, Daddy. You're the fun one and, and-" Her eyes widen, when she remembers what she's missing out on. "Quick, Daddy! We have to hurry!"_

_Mother always insists on being the one in front. But Daddy just lets her take his hand and lead him on. Despite his long legs, Rapunzel never has to worry about him outrunning him. She's much faster up here. Even here her heavy hair weighs nothing, but trails behind her like the tail of a shooting star._

_Above them, close enough to jump up and touch, is the vault of the sky and all the summer stars. Rapunzel knows all her constellations very well - kneeling Uncle Hercules and Daddy's lyre, Uncle Arcas and his mama Auntie Callisto, even her big brother holding up the serpent of his staff. Even if they're all just pictures in the stars put up there a very long time ago so people will never forget them, Rapunzel still likes to talk to her closest thing to an extended family._

_When she has the time too, of course. Right now all she can is call out quick hellos to all of them on her way past._

_Rapunzel and her Daddy run from horizon to horizon, from dusk to the brink of dawn. She almost careens over the edge by accident, but Daddy swoops her into his arms before she can fall from the clouds. She squirms, stubbornly turning away from golden gates on the verge of opening to stare up one last time at the night sky. There's all her familiar friends and family, and that's it._

_"They're not there," she whispers, trying very hard not to cry. Mother says crying is for babies, and Rapunzel is not a baby anymore._

_"What's not there, Rapunzel?"_

_"My stars," she chokes out. She tries to be a big girl, but her eyes are warm and wet anyway. Daddy rubs her back, which helps calm her down again. "The ones that only come out on my birthday."_

_When she's not so sad, Daddy pulls back a bit, enough for her to see his face twist up. Not in the way it sometimes does when she brings up Mother, but when he tries to explain things Rapunzel has a very hard time understanding. At least he tries. The only things beyond the tower Mother wants to tell her about are the scary things, like monsters and men with pointy teeth._

_"Well, Rapunzel, that's because your stars aren't... stars."_

_Her brow scrunches. "How can my stars not be stars?"_

_"Er, you think of them as stars, but it's not what they really are."_

_"Like how the stars aren't actually our family, just pictures of them?"_

_"...A bit less morbid than that, sunshine, but yes."_

_"But what are my stars, if they aren't stars?"_

_Daddy chews his lip. Sometimes he tells her things, even if she can't understand them, and sometimes he just tells her to wait until she's older. But, until the sun rises, it's still her birthday and Daddy can't give her presents like Mother can. The very least he can do is explain her what the stars-that-aren't really are._

_Daddy makes up his mind. He opens his mouth to give his answer... just as the golden gates come spilling open._

_"Oh, come on, you f-"_

Rapunzel's eyes flutter open just as the sun becomes a pale sliver of red on the horizon. She muffles a groan into her pillow. She'd been on the verge of something and then, then...

Well, even as the dream goes to pieces in her mind and drift away like dust motes, she knows it was a good one. Even if she has salty tracks making her cheeks all stiff, from where she cried in her sleep.

There's no use in trying to fall back into sleep, not with the sun up and Mother soon to follow. So Rapunzel rolls out her blankets and to the basin, to wash her face like a good little flower, and ready herself for the day.

Outside, muffled by shutters and glass, the orioles sing her good morning. She knows their song like she knows her Mother's.

* * *

Rapunzel is a bright little girl. Gothel appreciates it, really. Better a sunny disposition than a sullen little sad sack. After long days out strengthening the wards or earning some paltry coin as an herbalist or fortune-teller, the cheer helps brighten her evenings. Until Rapunzel's cheer irritates instead of energizes. She always makes the mornings eventful, because her little flower is physically incapable of sleeping past dawn. Probably because she is the living embodiment of solar magic that should have never been bound up into one chubby little girl.

Unfortunately, Rapunzel is bright in the other way. Precociously so.

It's useful at first. Rapunzel picks up sweeping and dusting and cleaning the dishes in no time. Chores take up more of her day, and less of Gothel's. Too bad there is so much maintenance a tiny little tower with two inhabitants requires. There's no way Rapunzel can be trusted to cook yet, or anywhere around an open flame. Her hapless little flower might just burn all her hair off!

Drawing and painting are safe hobbies, if messy and expensive ones. Rapunzel burns through paper and paints as if she eats them. Allowing her to paint the tower walls and shelves provides her a bigger, cheaper canvass, one that attaches Rapunzel to the tower even further. That is why Gothel also grants her flower soil and seeds, to teach her patience and grant her company that roots her even further.

Reading is another quiet, calming activity. If only it didn't have the unfortunate side effect of inflaming imaginations and wanderlust. For the most part Gothel limits her subjects to simple, grounded things. Letters and simple words to begin with, and when her little flower grows restless, the stable subjects of botany and geology. Rocks and plants are both sedimentary, after all. She even buys that cooking book a bit early to get Rapunzel about excited about a necessary, tedious life skill. So long as Gothel keeps the flint locked up when she leaves, there's no harm the girl can get into.

The one extraneous book Gothel caves on is a more fanciful one on the constellations. Rapunzel is obsessed with drawing the stars and tracing out constellations of her own anyway. Navigation will be a useful skill, one day, when circumstances force them to finally abandon the tower for the wider world. The gruesome stories behind the constellations are an unexpected benefit, those that only affirm the outside world as a cruel and capricious place, full of monsters and men no better. This book re-imagines even the old gods as old heroes blown way out of proportion, reasons them away as never having existed at all.

Considering her little flower's... unconventional heritage, it also comes as no surprise to Gothel she's one for music and song. That's a very good thing, considering the spell for the flower will not work unless the notes are properly carried. So, once she is sure the sound won't carry beyond the enchantments, Gothel allows Rapunzel her choice of musical instruments. But just the one. They can't go cluttering up the whole tower.

Of all possible options, Rapunzel begs for a _guitar._ Gothel has half-expected her to beg for a lyre or harp, something thematically more fitting.

At least her little flower has a natural ear for melodies, and picks up the guitar even before she's too big to properly hold it.

It's almost enough to make Gothel burst from pride. Almost.

She considers herself a good mother, considering the circumstances. Rapunzel is safe from all possible harm. She will never know true loss or pain, not with Gothel to shield her from it all. Unlike so many other children her age, she need not toil for hours in the fields or kitchens or workshops, only carry her fair share of the chores. When the natural bloom of her youth fades, and she starts to wither instead of flourish, then the flower's golden magic shall sustain her too.

When Rapunzel begs for a _friend,_ one more substantial than her imaginary ones, Gothel indulges her where she can. She can provide her little flower more plants to tend, even the rags to sew herself whatever little doll or creature she wants.

Never a living pest, to burrow into their walls and eat into their stores, to threaten her little flower's sheltered constitution with its bites and fleas. Gothel tolerates many things for her flower's sake, but will never abide by filth.

* * *

Even so early in the morning, Corona's docks are bustling with activity. The city is a major port, after all, and for every ship seeking to set sail with fresh cargo there is another waiting in the harbor to take their place. The streets are like a busy hive, teeming with sailors and merchants and all others draw by such crowds.

Anonymous, he walks among them, delighting in the _worldliness_ of it all. Some of these ships are from the Americas, laden with tobacco and sugarcane and the scents of a shore he will never see. Some crews were recruited from the Mediterranean. Here is his best bet of hearing Greek or the Romance languages, either Spanish or those of the Italian states. It reminds him of all the places he once called home, grants him the smallest ideas of how the old cities and civilizations have grown in his absence.

...Not that this visit is all pleasure, of course, so he refuses to let any of these sailors catch his eye. Even though fatherhood practically takes up all his nights nowadays doesn't stop him having a day job.

Miguel is as anonymous as he can be, because the city guard is still on alert for deviant guitar players that may or may not have accidentally caused a major traffic jam least after one too happy song pulled half the street into a spontaneous celebration. But even he can be subtle when he wants to be.

The world works in mysterious, after all. He lingers around the busy crowds, the gentle whisper the urges the kinder souls to take the time out of their day to spare a coin for a poor performer or catch the old woman next to them when she stumbles on a cobblestone. Under his eye hardened captains grant desperate new hands a chance for money and adventure, a struggling painter has a sudden breakthrough for what will become his masterpiece, and that little charity on the street corner pulls in more donations than it has in the last month.

And maybe he also takes a bit more of an active role than is smiled upon in this day and age. The two older folk struggling against their cough can just as well have colds that they'll soon recover from in this gentle, mild spring instead of nascent pneumonia. That sailor doesn't _have_ to have an infection, when his symptoms are still so early on. Reaching out to snatch that little boy from tumbling into water? Basic human decency, if any humans had actually been in grabbing range of him.

Miguel swings the little boy into his arms, carrying him down the busy street where his mother frantically shouts his name. She is upon them in an instant, sputtering her gratitude between embracing her son and peppering his head in tearful kisses.

"It was no problem at all," he answers honestly. "Really."

Before the mother can see past her tears enough to actually _see_ him, he makes his escape, one far more graceful from where the city guard chased him just the week before.

His work done for the time being, part of Miguel whispers it's time to move on, to brighten another part of the kingdom too. Another part, deeper and more desperate, urges him to make one final round of the docks.

Miguel listens. He makes one last circuit for the day. His eye does not want to fall upon the people, who are all fine if extraordinarily frazzled by trying to offload three ships at once, but upon the heaping piles of cargo. There had been three orderly piles, once, but now they are haphazardly mixed together. It's a problem that none of the dock masters have quite realized yet.

Finally, he sees what has his instincts screaming so loudly. And his stomach drops when he realizes that empty cage is not so _empty_.

"Oh," he murmurs. _"Oh, no."_

He turns, catching the gaze of a dock master. Revelation dawns, as she at last turns to the growing mess from three ships with horrified eyes.

"Stop!"

In the ensuing chaos, Miguel swoops in. He's gone with that poor, fragile little thing in his hands before the squabble truly breaks out.

The most private places in Corona are the rooftops. In a few agile leaps off barrels and alley walls, they're up there, with only the warm sun beating down on them. Only then does he crouch, to more properly inspect what he has rescued.

If his eyes were not so strong, even if he wouldn't have noticed the cage was not quite so empty. The little lizard trembling in his hands is barely an outline, heartbeats away from fading away entirely. At this point all Miguel can do is sigh and brace for the inevitable.

Beings like them don't leave bodies behind when they finally pass away. Miguel has watched many fade, over the centuries, first those he and his family replaced here and then his family themselves. Then, more rarely in the ensuing centuries, the tiny bits of flotsam and jetsam that sometimes washed in with the wrong stories or a sailor too attached to the tales of their homeland. They never lingered long, and neither did the poor little shadows they left behind.

"I'm sorry," Miguel says, soothingly as he can. "So, so-"

He squeals in surprise and nearly drops his precious cargo, when the little lizard opens his eyes and flushes back into visibility. His scales are still sickly green, but far more substantial than first thought. Miguel falls back onto his ass, as he and the little lizard gawk at each other.

Then his face breaks into a wide, apologetic smile. "Sorry there. I didn't realize you were a chameleon. A real, honest _chameleon._ "

Miguel hasn't seen one in ages, not since long ago in far warmer, more hospitable climes. And those chameleons had flashed colors depending on their moods, not near blended invisibly into their surroundings.

The chameleon scowls up at him, because they both know full well he did not start off as a chameleon any more than Miguel was born a man named Miguel. But, here and now, this is what they are. And the chameleon is certainly not in a position to tell him otherwise, much less where he's from originally. In this jumble of ships, Miguel can't tell.

Ordinarily, Miguel would try for optimism, but now isn't the time for that. "Unfortunately, old boy, there's not much I can do for you. There was barely a niche for _me_ here, until... Well, enough about me. The point is, I think your odds of survival hinge on menageries. At best."

They pull faces at each other when they consider the alternative. Some collectors prefer living beasts. Some are more than content to ship them live halfway across the world, so an experienced taxidermist can preserve them properly for their homes.

Unless, unless...

"There is a girl," Miguel begins. "A very bright, very lonely little girl who desperately needs a friend. One true friend."

The chameleon cocks his head and blinks. Miguel laughs sadly and leans against the chimney behind him. "Believe me, old boy, I've tried. So very, very hard." Anything that could climb old stone or fly to that lofty window, when Gothel had sealed the base against pests. "Any little bird or squirrel that might have needed a warm home for the winter, or to heal a broken bone. Someone to be there for all those long, long days she's up there all by herself. It works for a day. Maybe two. Until her mother gets back. Then a day more, until..."

They both wince. Rapunzel's pets always _disappear_ or _run away_. Mostly Gothel just disposes of their bodies elsewhere. Except the odd time or two she's decided one could work in a stew, without their flower ever catching on to where Mr. Fluffytail the squirrel has ended up.

Miguel quails beneath the chameleon's flat stare. "N-Not that you'd ever have such a problem, old boy. Not with a gift like that."

For a moment the lizard's eyes flick to the roof's edge and the apathetic waters of the harbor beyond, weighing his options. Miguel sighs at his melodramatics.

"Really, old boy, at least there's a _chance._ These days that's the best you can hope for." More quietly, adds, "She deserves all the love she can get. And she has so very much to give."

The chameleon's resistance crumbles. Though it takes a bit more convincing to get him on board with all of Miguel's plan. Really, even he's only doing _okay_ these days, and certainly doesn't have the power to throw around all willy-nilly. Always being there in his little girl's dreams are one thing. Being there _physically_ is a whole different plane of existence. Much less with a passenger in tow. Besides, it'll help sell the bit.

Not that Rapunzel will need much convincing anyway, because this little chameleon is already so adorable Miguel would squeal and hug him too.... if it wasn't beneath his dignity, of course.

That is how a shaking chameleon is coaxed onto the back of a golden hawk, clinging to his feathers for dear life even before takeoff. And squeals at the top of his tiny little lungs when the bird finally lifts off with one mighty thrust of his wings.

In the street below a keen set of ears twitches at the sound of a tiny lizard squealing its lungs out. The white stallion glances up, utterly bewildered by the sight of a lizard riding a natural predator. He turns to the crowded streets, snorts at even a spectacle his own damned rider is oblivious to, and returns to his duties.

* * *

Rapunzel's stomach tightens with dread at the sound of a hawk's piercing cry. Her tower is set above a clearing in an ancient forest. Even she knows the sight is a preferred hunting ground for many predators. She's witnessed more killings than her tender heart can bear. To Mother they have always served as a pointed reminder as to why little girls can never be let down from the tower, not when such hungry predators are waiting in the woods.

Her first instinct is to flinch away from the windows and strum her guitar very loudly until it's all over, like she usually does. But the hawk circles by before she can. She can't help but gape at the sight of him. When his dull brown feathers catch the sunlight, they flash a sunny gold almost like her own hair. For a ruthless killer with wings, he's quite pretty.

And not the best flier, either. The hawk whips too sharply around her tower. The little green thing in his talons goes flying out of his grip, and straight through the open window into the tower.

With a shriek of outrage the hawk lands on the windowsill, beating his wide wings as it too tries to force his way inside. Reflexively, Rapunzel grabs her closest weapon at hand, the broom she was sweeping with. She pushes the hawk back outside, where he plummets with a surprised squawk. She slams the shutters shut behind him. Not a heartbeat after she locks them, there's a pained squawk as the hawk tries to slam his way though.

The shutters shake for a few moments more, before Rapunzel hears a frustrated shriek and the beating of mighty wings. She peaks through the gap in the shutters and glimpses nothing but blue sky. Still not trusting them open, she squints against the gloom to search the room instead.

"Hello?" she whispers, loudly as she dares, heading in the direction she's sure she saw the little green thing fly. "Are you alright?"

Her heart sinks when she sees nothing. What if the poor little guy already went missing like all of her other friends? What if he's _d-_

Rapunzel leaps three feet into the air when a seemingly innocuous patch of floor suddenly _shifts,_ and two wide eyes stare up at her. Clamping down against her yelp, she slowly kneels down, making herself small as she can be. Poor little guy. She still looms like a giant over him like those monsters from Mother's stories. His little green sides are heaving too fast to be healthy.

"Hi," she whispers. "I'm Rapunzel. Sorry if I scared you. You must have had quite the day already."

Rapunzel waits. After a few minutes, the frantic breathing of the little lizard subsides a bit. She smiles in relief. He's quite shaken up, but at least that mean old hawk hasn't done more than ding him up. But her smile fades a bit when she remembers all the damage that might be inside. Do lizards bruise? How can she tell, if they're hidden beneath the scales?

"Is it okay if I hold you?" she tries. "Just to see if you're hurt or not?"

The little lizard gives the tiniest nod, so Rapunzel carefully scoops him into her hands. He curls into her palms with a contented sigh. Right. Lizards love the sun. She's seen plenty basking in the rocks below the tower before. The stone floor here must be freezing for him. He looks okay, but...

"I have magic hair," she admits in a whisper, a secret only Mother and her vanished animal friends know. "It makes people feel better. Would you mind me using it on you, so I could be sure you're okay after all that old mean hawk did?"

The little lizard lets her wrap her hair around him. He starts a bit when it starts to glow, but settles back down with a contented sigh as the healing magic washes over him.

Rapunzel smiles triumphantly when she unwraps him after. His scales aren't pale green anymore, but a deep emerald color like the leaves outside will be in a month. "See? I told you you'd feel better!" She bites her lip as she considers the shuttered windows. "I'll hide you tonight, okay? Just in case that shiny hawk is still out there somewhere."

Unseen to them both, that same old hawk keeps vigil on the rooftop, an impossible smile on his fierce face as his keen ears hear the events unfold below. Only toward dusk, when he hears Gothel stumbling through the undergrowth, does he sail into the trees. He'll linger by the next few days, until he's sure the danger's passed and no impromptu rescues will be necessary.

Rapunzel's not quite sure what this little type of lizard eats, but he hungrily wolfs down everything she sets down before him. She gasps in delight at the sight of his long pink tongue, snapping out again and again to snatch bread crumbs and shredded bits of cheese and whatever else she has at hand.

Her new friend is small and real good at hiding. Mother never suspects a thing when she comes home that night. Rapunzel doesn't need to lie when she says she closed the windows on a nice spring day because that old mean hawk scared her. That's the truth, even if she was more afraid for her friend than herself.

She falls asleep that night with her new little friend curled up beneath her covers, but the spring nights are still so cold and he needs all the protection he can get.

Part of her insists he needs a name, but Rapunzel knows she has to let him go in the morning, for his own sake. Mother always says not to name things you can't afford to get attached to.

Like Mr. Fluffytail, who had run off back into the woods after biting Mother and never having the decency to say goodbye.

* * *

_"...and then my magic hair made the ka-camel-"_

_"Chameleon, sunshine," Daddy reminds her gently._

_"Yes, Daddy. Then my magic hair made the chameleon feel better and now he's spending the night and..." Rapunzel blinks curiously up at her Daddy, who at times has more answers than Mother. "Daddy, how come he's called a chameleon? That word's so lo-ong."_

_"So is Rapunzel," Daddy points out._

_"Yes, but that's my name. You said he's **a** chameleon, not that his name **is** Chameleon."_

_"Because it isn't his name, Rapunzel." Daddy smiles sadly. "I don't know his name, and we can't exactly ask him."_

_"Can't you name him, then?"_

_Daddy arches an eyebrow. "I'm not the one that saved his life from that big, majest- er, scary hawk today, love. A name would mean much more, coming from you."_

_She shrinks back, which isn't very far because she's in Daddy's arms. "Mother told me not to name things that can't stay. It only makes you sadder when they leave."_

_"Rapunzel," Daddy says seriously. "Who says he has to leave? Why can't he spend every day with you, and every night sleeping by your side, so long as you both want him there?"_

_She chews her lip long and hard as she considers the reasons why not. Usually that part of her brain sounds like Mother's voice, but tonight it's silent. Rapunzel's never seen a chameleon before. Maybe he's one of a kind, like her, and doesn't belong in that ruthless outside world anymore than she does. Not like squirrels and sparrows do. She had saved his life today, after all._

_"Pascal," she says decisively, her mind made up._

_Daddy snorts, biting hard against his grin as he shakes with laughter. She frowns reproachfully at him._

_"Daddy, what's so funny? That's his name!"_

_"I know, princess," he murmurs, pressing a whiskery kiss to her brow. "And it suits him... perfectly."_

Pascal stays through the spring and summer. There's a few close calls, in the beginning. Mother can always sniff out when Rapunzel has an animal friend hiding out. But she never finds Pascal. He's small enough to curl up most anywhere and very, very good at not being found when he wants to be.

Eventually Gothel shrugs and gives up, after she risks enough power to do one last scan of the tower to confirm, yes, no hidden animals are in residence. At last she relaxes, and assumes her little flower has at least put that silly little stage of making animal friends behind her.

By the time autumn rolls around, Rapunzel has no choice but to keep sheltering Pascal. The weather is much too cold for his poor little body. He spends winter curled up by the fire when Mother's away, or else tucked away in Rapunzel's bed or thick winter sleeves if she's not.

By next springtime, it's clear that Pascal is here to stay. She now can't imagine life without him anymore than he can without her. He's Rapunzel's first friend, her only friend, the only one that survives the tower for more than a week. 

Mother and Daddy don't count, of course. They're her family.

For a time, Rapunzel is content. And her dreams stop asking her pointed questions about what she'd like to see outside the tower, in the waking world, because with Pascal in her heart she has no need to make Mother upset with frivolous thoughts like that.

When the season turns cold once more, and another opportunity for escape closes, Miguel bites back his frustration to cheerfully see his little girl through another winter. She is not as little as she used to be, anymore, to his pride and despair.

There's always next spring, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Eugene and Tulio will get a similar flyby of their early years together next chapter ;)
> 
> The constellation dreamscape is inspired by Rapunzel's painted star charts in the movie. She knows the myths behind them and the faces in the constellations, but they're all dead images in this point and time. Those that get a mention are Hercules and Apollo's lyre (Lyra), Apollo's half-brother Arcas and mother Callisto (the Little and Big Dipper), and Ophiuchus, the Serpent-Bearer, who is sometimes Apollo's son Asclepius. Of course, Rapunzel's 'stars' aren't up there ; )
> 
> Constellation book aside, all of Rapunzel's early hobbies and books are movie canon. Including the guitar :D Any animal friends before Pascal are... something that seems likely with a jealous, protective Gothel in the mix : (
> 
> Chameleons range from southern Iberia through the southern Mediterranean, Anatolia, and wider parts of Africa, the Middle East, and India. Considering trade in the late 1700s, Pascal could well have come from most anywhere in the Old World :p On a more meta level, he also represents Rapunzel's first conscious lie by omission and first rebellion (however minor) against Gothel.
> 
> It was happy accident that Pascal shares his name with a Spanish saint appropriate to this period whose aesthetic is a strong match for this interpretation of Miguel XD


	5. looking in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Growing up with a wanted man for a father figure isn't easy.
> 
> Especially when that father figure has serious hang-ups about being a father figure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Months of creative dryness and I then tackled this in like a week. Oi.

"Tha'!"

Tulio cranes his head back to Eugene, hoisted firmly on his shoulders. The kid stabs another finger upwards.

"Cloud. _Cloud."_

"Tha'!"

"Tree."

"Tha'!"

"Bird."

So it goes for hours, as they wander their way down the winding roads that join Corona's outer villages. Tulio repeats himself over and over, because right now Eugene just wants to know what things are rather than babble out the words for himself. Sometimes Tulio can only guess what he's pointing at. Is he pointing at the horse, the wagon, or the wrinkly old man driving it? Tulio shrugs and hedges his bets.

As the day winds on Tulio can't help but tune out a little. He jolts back to himself when Eugene happily spouts 'aves' instead of 'bir.'" Oops. Can't go teaching the kid dead languages when he's still getting hang of plain old Coronan. Tulio pays more attention after that. The kid has a hard enough life already.

"Daddy!"

Tulio stumbles so hard he nearly trips into the dirt. Only his precious cargo makes him swerve to catch himself in time. He gawks back at the kid.

"...What?"

Eugene beams. "Daddy!"

This is the part where Tulio should praise the kid for trying out a brand new word. He usually does.

Tulio has never taught him this word, nor any iteration of it. But Eugene is a sharp kid. He drinks up conversations in the roads and town squares. To take care of his business Tulio does have to foist him off on trustworthy people, especially as the kid starts getting older and more in the way. Most of his babysitters mistakenly believe Tulio to be more than just a temporary caretaker.

Once upon a time, Tulio had been 'dad' and 'father,' depending on his closeness to the kid in question. Never 'daddy.' Even his immortal offspring had grown up too quick to be toddlers for long. And Eugene isn't even blood. He's his kid, sure, but not _his_ kid.

Tulio tries for a smile. It comes out brittle. Eugene's proud grin falters.

Tulio averts his gaze. Thinking fast, he plucks a coin from his vest and flips it high as he can, gold flashing in the light. Eugene watches its descent, utterly mesmerized. He laughs when Tulio catches it with a flourish.

"Tha!"

"Gold," Tulio settles on. Because 'magic' and 'miracle' shouldn't be in a kid's early vocabulary. "Gold!"

"Gol!"

Tulio grins.

If Eugene had grown like a weed in his first year, then it's by leaps and bounds in his second. Within weeks he progresses from standing to inching along fences to flat-out running. Tulio is proud. Really. Even if his kid is prone to darting off the moment his back is turned. Thank gods part of him is still kinda immortal, what with the agelessness and fast healing and all. Otherwise Eugene would have killed him through multiple heart attacks weeks ago. He snatches the kid from falling into streams, charging into oncoming traffic, and from grabbing shiny things in the markets.

Once Eugene masters his basic vocabulary he starts stringing questions together. Tulio answers what he can. And creatively lies about what he can't.

Kids tell it as it is. For a kid raised by the former lord of thieves and full-time vagabond, this is not a good thing. This is not an age where a kid can happily blab about wolves play the best tag or that his 'uncle' pulled the sweetest trick on those dice players two villages back.

Tulio cuts his list of potential babysitters down considerably. It's for the best. Eugene is too young to remember his early weirdness as anything but maybe vague dreams and overblown imagination. He's gonna need to enter the real world someday, when he realizes he's going to grow old and die while his caretaker stands unchanging. Eugene will never wrestle or run or do any of the feats his demigod kids could. He's mortal to the bone, with a need to develop ambitions within mortal capabilities.

A prouder man might have tried dumping Eugene off into an apprenticeship. But Tulio knows the kid's future already. He has quick hands and a quicker mind. As a street-raised orphan there's only so many paths his life can take. And Eugene doesn't have the patience to try any sort of farming or flocking.

So Tulio teaches him how to put his lies to good use, makes him the adorable distraction to buff up his acting skills. Then comes the dice throwing, and the pick pocketing, and learning how to use the streets and rooftops to his own advantage. His guilt is quick to fade. Tulio was born a thief and he'll die a thief. But that will come long after Eugene has grown up and met an uneventful end as an old, peaceful man. Tulio might not be lord of thieves anymore, but there's enough power left in him that his kid need never fear the gallows or a knife in the back.

It's the least he can do, when he failed to find the kid a stable home before they both became set in their ways.

Tulio is selfish like that. He likes having a partner in crime again, no matter how limited their time. It's someone to joke and improvise with, someone who can almost manage his actual partner's old zest for life.

At least until Tulio's cynicism inevitably wears off on him too.

* * *

His name is Eugene FitzHerbert. Today, however, his name is just Fitz. This time Tulio isn't his uncle or his guardian or his big brother. No. Now Tulio is 'Dad' to Eugene and 'Niklas' to everyone else. Because Tulio always gives himself the best aliases, while Eugene is stuck with 'Fitz' or 'Herbert' or 'Jean.' Apparently Eugene is still too young to be trusted to answer to a name not partially his own.

Today was supposed to be an actual con, not something boring like helping a shepherd bring in his flock or some other busy work. Then Eugene's lame excuse of a parent got that far-away look in his eye, plopped him down in the village square, and made him promise to stay there without breaking the law whatsoever.

Eugene can lie and charm his way out of most anything, but never with Tulio. The bastard always finds out if he breaks his word. Eugene would rather sit and simmer then deal with another lecture and look of 'I'm not mad just disappointed.' Eugene can handle stern and angry. He crumbles at earnest disappointment. And for all Tulio's shortcomings as a parent he pulls some very heart-wrenching faces.

With nothing better to do he plops down by the fountain. There an old woman has the little kids half his age crowded around her. Sure, that means this is a baby story, but it might still be a _new_ one. Eugene doesn't hear those too often anymore. He spends a lot of time on the road and his old man knows pretty much all of them.

"Saint Aelia needed to cross the river. She knew there was a village somewhere across it, but could not reach it on her own. The water was too rough for her."

"Why didn't she just swim across?" pipes in a snot-nosed brat.

The old woman chuckles. "Little one, no one wants to _swim_ a river swollen by the spring thaw. It's far too cold and old rough for old bones like your own grandmother's, let alone a saint who was even older than your grandmother is now. Besides, she managed to find a point of the river shallow enough to ford. If only she was young and strong enough to! On her own her poor bones just couldn't take it."

"Did someone help her?" pipes in a distressed little girl.

The storyteller sighs. "Well, in those days Corona was still a wild place. People were far and between on Saint Aelia's road. Kind people were even fewer. Six people passed Saint Aelia that day. She asked each one for help. That only made them walk faster, too fast for her to keep up. They ignored her pleas and averted their eyes. She was worst than a ghost to them."

"But _why?"_ whines the first brat.

"Who knows?" retorts the old woman, leaning sadly on her cane. "Maybe they were hurrying home to sick relatives. Maybe they were late for something they just couldn't afford to miss. All Saint Aelia could do was pity them, for they were so caught up in themselves they had no idea their neighbors even existed." She smiles wryly. "But the seventh traveler on her road saw her. Not that he wanted to help her. Oh, no. He was too caught up in his woes to see a little old woman that had waited all night into the next morning for him. What made him different was his anger. He was so fed up with the world he couldn't last another moment without ranting to _someone_ , and Saint Aelia was the only soul around to hear."

_Oh_ , Eugene realizes as his interest drops off over the next few lines as the story becomes more and more familiar. It's just the one with Saint Aelia and Saint Shepherd. He's heard told a dozen times already. This old lady just puts more effort into the buildup.

Bored, he wanders away from the old lady and to the quietest corner of the square. He reaches into his satchel for his most prized possession in all the world, more precious than even gold and jewels.

Eugene nicks books when he can. He reads them on the road. His peripheral vision is so good now Tulio rarely has to pull him away from potholes or out of the way of oncoming carriages. By the next village he's done with his book, ready to ditch it on some unwary bookseller for the next one. With the story memorized the book only becomes dead weight. But not _The Adventures of_ _Flynnigan Ryder._ Eugene never gets bored with the swashbuckling rogue, the boldest man to ever live. He'll carry his adventures forever.

Eugene lets the noisy square and its smelly animals drift away. He's swarming pirate ships and rescuing damsels in distress in some land far away from boring old Corona.

"-id. Hey, kid." Eugene blinks blearily up. Tulio, framed by the setting sun, smiles wanly. "Welcome back, kid. Thought I lost you in the pages."

Eugene frowns at how long the shadows have grown. "What took you so long?"

"Work." Tulio's shoulders slump. "Sorry, Eugene. It got... complicated."

Eugene squints long and hard at him. His old man is tired, sure, but not on the smug way he does when he disappears with someone cute. He's tired in that saggy sort of way that means he's actually sad. For now Eugene decides to believe him.

"...What kind of complicated?"

His guardian plasters on a smile. "How do you feel to _not_ spending a night under the stars?"

Eugene grins. Sure, it's a blatant attempt at misdirection, the kind he learned to see through when he was _three._ Still, a piping hot meal, as much as he can eat. Then, an actual bed, in an actual room. This isn't even the sort of stay Tulio pays for with a wink to the innkeeper and a smile of mutual understanding. He pays for it all with actual gold they didn't have this morning.

"Who'd you steal it from?" he asks later, when he is tucked into bed in a cozy little room shared by only the two of them.

Tulio snorts. "Please, kid. I don't steal _everything._ This was... a legitimate business transaction."

"Yeah? For _what?"_

His guardian's lips quirk up. "Someone... wanted in to get out. I just helped them find the out."

Eugene nods slowly. Inwardly he ponders this. Tulio could have dropped him off at an orphanage a long time ago. Instead he puts up with him when no one else will. Even if he disappears for weird things and them live life entirely on the move. And tends to inspire winks and weird smiles from people when he reappears. Add all his random kindness and... randomness onto the story from earlier and...

"Hey, d- Tulio?" They're in private now. He doesn't need to worry about their lie for the village 'til morning.

"Yes, Eugene?"

"You... wouldn't happen to secretly be the guy Saint Shepherd was based off, right?"

Tulio blinks as he processes this. Then his face shudders in a paroxysm of emotions so fierce Eugene fears he broke him. Finally he splutters out something that might be a laugh before his face tightens up. "No," he squeaks. "Not in any way, shape, or form. W-What even brought this on?"

Eugene smirks at his theatrics. "Well, duh."

Tulio's face falls. Then he quirks an involuntary grin of his own. "Hah, hah. Very funny, kid. Now stop giving me heart attacks and go to bed."

Eugene snuggles into his blanket. In minutes his old man starts snoring. Eugene wrinkles his nose and sits up enough to sniff at the pungent vest Tulio's hang up beside his bed. Beneath a smell like ash there's a sweetness to the odor, something like dried flowers or those weird fruits the markets get in sometimes. But even after several minutes he still can't place it, so he shrugs and drifts off to sleep.

He dreams he's Flynnigan Ryder again, able to do whatever he wants and with nothing to tie him down. Those dreams are always the best. Even if he wakes up sad again each morning he's still Eugene FitzHerbert.

* * *

"Can we keep her? Please!"

"W-Where did you even _find her?"_

"Right by the side of the road. She came right up to me and everything. Ate my last jerky right out of my hand!" Eugene laughs when the puppy squirms up to lavish his face with kisses again. "See? Bell already loves me!"

Tulio groans. "Great. You already named her."

"Yeah. 'Cause she's such a little beauty, aren't you? Yes, you are!"

Eugene doesn't know what her jerk of a master was thinking, dumping Bella on the side of the road like that for any wild animal to carry off. She's a ball of fuzzy gray fluff with big paws and big blue eyes. This far in the middle of nowhere she has to be some sort of sheepdog. At least a mutt that's partly a sheepdog. But Bella is definitely a sweetheart. Even when he lowers her out of reach she settles for licking his arms and hands instead, any part of him her little pink tongue can reach.

Tulio drags a hand down his face. Eugene braces for the weary surrender to their new pet. "Kid, no. Just... no. You can't keep her."

"Why not?" Eugene demands. "I'll feed her and teach her how to fetch a-and she can help distract people while we-"

"Eugene," Tulio sighs. "She literally isn't yours to keep. She already has a family out there."

He scoffs, clutching her close. "Yeah. One that abandoned her!"

Blue eyes narrow. "You so sure about that?"

Eugene angrily jerks his chin up. "She was all alone by the side of the road!"

"Then that means we can bring her back there. Unless you're afraid someone in the area might be looking for her?" For lack of a better option Eugene resorts to a puppy dog pout of his own. He's not afraid to use the face when it almost always makes Tulio crumble. But today the old fart crosses his arms and arches an eyebrow. "Well?"

Eugene scowls. Fine. Let them waste time backtracking and waiting around for nobody. Who cares if they're spending another night out in the open, when he has Bella to curl up on his chest?

As they near the spot where he found Bella she whines in the back of her throat, ears pricking up. Eugene freezes at the howl that suddenly splits the air, too loud and too close. He protectively cradles Bella close. She whimpers in his hold and wriggles against it. He clutches her tighter to compensate. When her milk teeth nip his hands, he yelps at the pain and drops her.

Before she can tumble to the ground Tulio catches her. Using one arm to ward Eugene back, he lowers the puppy to the ground. Immediately she streaks away from them, darting under the fence to the dark shadow lurking at the edge of the wood.

"No!" Eugene screams. He tries to lunge after her, but Tulio's grip stops him cold. "She's gonna-"

Because she is a naive little puppy who doesn't know any better, Bella fearlessly charges up to a wild animal that can easily snap her in two. The wolf lowers its head to sniff delicately at her. Eugene freezes in utter bewilderment when Bella lunges up to smother the wolf's snout in kisses. His heart drops at the pups, exactly like Bella, that tumble out of the wood. They all play at the wolf's paws. In the shadows glint the eyes of their pack.

Eugene stands dead still as the wolf's golden eyes stare at them. He knows running for it is a bad idea. At his side Tulio squares his shoulders and takes an assertive step forward. He raises his shepherd's staff, a gift from their most recent herding job, a little higher. It's enough of a threat to make turn and slink back into the shadows. Its puppies, Bella included, follow after her with plaintive whines.

"I-I didn't know."

"No," Tulio sighs. "You wouldn't have."

"H-How..."

"You don't see many wolves in these parts today, but that wasn't true back in when I was your age. I've seen my fair share of them. So long as we're not threats to them, and they're not in dire straits, we can leave each other well enough alone."

Eugene swallows thickly. "The jerky I fed her... do you think she still smelled it on my hands?"

Tulio's silent shrug is answer enough. Eugene's heart plummets. He nearly turned a wild animal into a pet, ripped her away from her family. What if the pack had tracked them down that night and killed them in their sleep, all because he couldn't tell a wolf apart from a damned dog?

"We can try the next town," Tulio volunteers after a while. "If you think a dog could really help out in our cons."

"Nah," Eugene grits out. "It'd only make us easier to track."

They walk on in silence. Because of Eugene's stupidity, they don't make town in time. They have to hunker down in the same woods where the wolves lurk. He can't trust Tulio's promise the fire will keep them far at bay. It's not like they have any food left on them anyway.

By firelight Eugene squints through enough of his book to forget Bella and remember Flynnagan Ryder again. He hopes enough for another of his favorite dreams tonight.

But he doesn't dream at all. The night is alive with wolf song and the yipping cries of wolf pups.

After an hour of Eugene staring into the night, Tulio sighs and rises from his sleeping mat. "Get some sleep, kid. Gods know one of us needs it."

"I can't."

"You can." Fingers card through his hair. Despite feeling rather much like a puppy (or, worse, a little kid) Eugene settles into the motion. "You just need a little help, is all."

Something about Tulio's voice lulls Eugene right off. It has since he was a baby. His dreamless sleep is dark and deep.

He awakes the next morning surprisingly refreshed. His old fart is sprawled out on the opposite side of the fire, eyes half-lidded and fresh meat roasting on the fire. Eugene's mouth waters.

"W-Where did you even find that?"

Tulio smirks. "Killed it myself."

Eugene rolls his eyes at the terrible joke, because they both know the old fart doesn't have a lethal bone in his body. He tears into the venison with relish. It's so delicious he quickly forgets to ask where the miracle meal had even come from and after that forgets there was anything worth wondering over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all the numerous kids the Greek gods spawned most really didn't have any actual part in the raising of those kids, Hermes included. Add that to centuries of emotional detachment and mourning his mythological kids and even more centuries of daddy issues... Eugene still comes to be Flynn here for a reason.


	6. part of growing up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Growing up and growing apart are not concurrent, but still almost always go hand in hand.
> 
> Some parents take it better than others.

It's been a week. Seven nights. He's counted. Seven whole nights without meeting his little girl.

Well, not so little anymore. Rapunzel is growing up into a fine young woman. She has Arianna's curiosity and Frederic's strong sense of goodness. Her flair is definitely all Miguel's. Oh, how her other two parents deserve to see her. If only Gothel's enchantments, and the fate around their daughter, did not grow more choking by the day.

Physically Rapunzel is just fine. Miguel's neglecting his daily duties now to check up on her every day. He's paying for it in the exhaustion of too much power spent too much too often. Still, his sunshine is no different. She still does her daily routines and faces no crueler treatment from Gothel than usual. Even Pascal, who perhaps knows her heart best these days, reports nothing out of the ordinary. Rapunzel isn't changing for the worse. She's just... changing.

All the mortals that survive long enough do so, in the end. There's a reason Miguel's twin preferred her huntresses sworn to her young, why the gods of old had usually carried off mortals no older than youths as their eternal retainers. It's much the same desire that makes most monsters prefer children over adults. Their minds are younger, more open. They do not know enough of the world to yet know all that should not be true.

Miguel never regrets his daughter is more mortal than not. In her early years he was relieved beyond belief she still grew despite Gothel abusing the magic of her hair. Its enchantment returns Gothel to middle age but does not prevent a baby from fully growing into the person she is destined to become.

On the eighth day Miguel swoons in Corona's streets when he goes for his wings, when his being refuses to again be pushed to the limit. He falls and cracks his head open on the cobblestone. It's just a little gash, really, but head wounds bleed so badly he's still rushed by someone to the nearest doctor. Honestly the hardest part is keeping his wound from healing itself until it is safely hidden beneath the doctor's bandages.

Miguel doesn't have the money to repay him, but he makes the best assistant the doctor ever had. With so many sick people coming through the doors, the day passes in no time flat. Miguel doesn't even have the time to even think of Rapunzel until well into the night. When the last patient is finally seen to he collapses wearily on the cot offered to him. He is too tired to hope.

Of course that's when she finds him anyway.

_"Good night, Dad!"_

_He blinks, before grinning wryly at their surroundings. "Good night, Rapunzel. My sunshine, my light of my life, my-"_

_"Dad!"_

_"Well, you are," he sing-songs, even as Rapunzel sinks into herself with the embarrassment all children her age should feel from a gushing parent. "Really. No matter how big you get you'll always be my sunshine, my light-"_

_Despite herself Rapunzel laughs when he spins her around, just once, because it's been years since he's done so. "Okay, Dad! I get it." She frowns as she considers the constellations above, bare toes digging into the cloudy ground. "I... It's been a while, hasn't it?"_

_"Not too long," Miguel assures. From a manner of speaking. Prior to his sunshine, a week for him could pass by in the blink of an eye. "I've had plenty to keep myself busy with in the meantime."_

_"R-Really?" Rapunzel blinks. "I-I've never considered it before."_

_"What, me having a day job?"_

_"...Well, yes."_

_He smiles sadly. Rapunzel has always loved chatting about her days to him. Pascal, bless his soul, isn't much of a conversationalist. Gothel only wants to hear herself. His little girl had deserved one normal outlet to share her life with. Even if that normal outlet had been a dad who could visit her only in dreams. Of course Rapunzel's curiosity has grown up with her sense of self. If only growing up in a damned tower hadn't kept her from wondering like she deserved to._

_"I don't believe it's ever come up before," he concedes._

_"C-Can you tell me about it?"_

_Miguel promises, on the vow she talks about her week. Rapunzel breezes through it. He savors every word. Gothel may not care how many songs Rapunzel has felt out for her guitar all on her own, or how her latest experiments in cooking are going, but Miguel wants to know how every chess match against Pascal played out._

_Then it's his turn to talk. Miguel talks about the people he's met the past week, the latest gossip he's picked up in port, anything he can. The dream smothers most exact details, even the most casual mention of her other parents. He's never quite devised the restrictions on their bond. Perhaps Rapunzel's ignorance of the waking world frames the confines in the world beyond. Maybe it's just more of Gothel's damnable magic or damnable destiny._

_Overhead the constellations relentlessly turn. As the blissful dark begins to fade away Miguel seizes onto his last minutes._

_"Wait!" He inhales deeply, schooling his features into calm. His desperation might only spook Rapunzel awake too soon. Instead Miguel fakes a serene smile. "Before you go, Rapunzel, I have a song for you."_

_"Is it yours?"_

_Miguel considers this and grins ruefully. In a way all can be called his, this one more than most made nowadays. "It's one I've rather grown fond of recently. I-It's not your song. Only you can find that. But may this one provide some inspiration on that front."_

_For a moment he almost reaches for a guitar. No. A classic calls for the classics. He settles back with a lyre instead, the very first made in all the world, the one his partner had granted to him as an apology for stealing his sacred cattle. He sings in authentic Ionic, never once heard in Corona, but in the heart the words translate differently. He'll leave their interpretation to a musician of this day and age._

_The song is all of four lines long. He and Rapunzel are still in tears by the end._

_"It-It's beautiful, Dad."_

_"It is," he sighs. Seikilos had devoted a masterpiece to his wife. Now it might live on again, however changed by the ages. He drops the lyre to hug Rapunzel instead. "Whatever you make for yourself will be a hundred times more so. Never forget that, Rapunzel. You can shine as gloriously as the sun, if you just have the courage to step out of the dark."_

_"I will," she mumbles into his shoulder, squeezing him right back. "Dad? I-I love you."_

_"I love you too," he murmurs. "Forever and always."_

_"Forever and always." Rapunzel peaks up at him as the golden gates in the east rattle with the coming dawn. "Hey, Dad?"_

_"Good morning."_

Miguel wakes in a cot. Dawn is a sliver on the horizon. He smiles wanly to it.

"Good morning, Rapunzel."

Before he slips into the new morning he takes a final round of the clinic. He's the first and only one up so far. Most patients are well on the mend. Some are a little slower he... helps them out. Just a little. A few blessings to ward off infection and encourage a body's natural healing for a bit aren't tiresome.

Helping Rapunzel has grown harder by the day, as she reaches an age where one stops questioning. It's harder for good dreams and Pascal and wild imagination to shake her from Gothel's teachings. All the nights Miguel spent with her once kept the nightmares at bay. He can't hunt down those monsters and men with pointy teeth so easily now. Dreams have never been his purview, not like they were... Well, he used them while he could, and have his little girl the foundation the witch never could.

These days Miguel is supposed to be a mild influence over an outright force. He can't raise the sun or strike down armies like he used to. He's encouraged Rapunzel's every passion, sheltered her in dreams, granted her one true friend in the world. He's guided his little girl to the edge of her tower. Now it's her turn to leap and find out she can soar in the world beyond.

When his thoughts grow too heavy, Miguel starts humming that melody once more. As Rapunzel starts strumming her own translation dozens of miles away, the lyrics finally come to him in Coronan, not dead and dusty Ionic. He whispers them as he finishes up.

_"While you live, shine, have no grief at all. Life exists only for a short while, and Time demands his due."_

* * *

It is twilight and the road ahead boring as dirt. Because it is dirt.

He's walked these roads many, many times. They're seared into his mind he can probably walk them blindfolded. As always, their final destination is a border village, one where some people know at least a handful of a language that _isn't_ Coronan. As always, they'll con them blind, and make their escape by doubling back into the country proper.

"Hey, old man?"

"Hm?"

"Why don't we switch things up this time and just... keep walking?"

Tulio sighs at a conversation long broached over the last few years, and especially in the most recent months. "Kid, we're already on the boundary. You can't exactly talk your way out of trouble if you don't speak the language."

Eugene rolls his eyes. "I know, like, four of them. And I know you know at least twice as many."

At least. His old man can pretty much smooth talk any sailor that comes into port in their native tongue.

"Just because I know them doesn't mean I _know_ them."

"...What?"

Tulio sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Eugene, when I felt as young and invincible as you do now, I wandered practically the whole damn word. The Old World, at least. W-We were young and stupid back then. We wandered to the edge of the unknown. Then... Then, he was gone. So was everything worthwhile waiting for me back home, because I'd traveled so far _nowhere_ was home. Not until I made Corona one."

Eugene is so stunned he almost swerves into a fence post. His old man, sharp as ever, drags him back into the road. Somehow he's just learned more about Tulio's past than he's ever heard before.

"D-Did you ever try to go back?"

"There's nothing back there for me but strangers and enemies." Tulio shrugs. "It's just the way of the world, for things to drift like that. I know the people here, kid, how they speak and they think and they bet. I know how to smooth their fears away and push them over the edge. It might not be the grandest niche in the world, but it's _my_ niche."

"If you traveled this far, why not _keep going?"_

Tulio looks at him askance, as if Eugene's just suggested flying for a change over walking. "To where?"

Eugene laughs. A world map is _huge_ and Corona's just one little speck of it. "I dunno. Somewhere warm and sunny? Wouldn't it be nice to be tanned and rested somewhere without winter, instead of freezing our butts off?"

Tulio's strange look deepens into a frown. Then his eyes fly open as he stops dead in the middle of the road. Eugene warily stops with him.

"What?" he prompts desperately. "What I say?"

"You want that," his old man murmurs. "Don't know? Not like you wanted a dog or a new book as a kid, but _need_ it."

Eugene's breath hitches as he realizes Tulio is _seeing_ him now. Not as a kid or sidekick, but as a man, an equal. He juts his chin out defiantly. "Yeah. I do."

Tulio huffs a laugh, shocked and broken and proud all at once. "A little rebellion, a little adventure. All part of growing up. At least your dreams are more feasible than founding a city or conquering a kingdom."

Now it's Eugene's turn to frown at him. "H-Hey, old man? Why are talking like this... is..."

For the first time Eugene _sees._ His old man is not old, except in his eyes. There is no gray in his jet-black hair, no lines at his lips or crow's feet. Frantically he things of all he has taken for granted, the unchanging face of his former caretaker while the other familiars in their travels had grown tall or gray. It's been years since they played father and son. Now every town thinks Tulio at least his youthful uncle, more often a brother or cousin.

Eugene stumbles back. Tulio stands there, watching him with terrible understanding.

"Chase your dreams, kid," the man who is not a man murmurs. "You're bold enough to make them come true."

Purposefully he turns and strides in the other direction, back to Corona. Only when he rounds the bend does the spell over him break.

"W-Wait!" he cries, throwing himself into a full, manic run. _"Dad!"_

He rounds the bend.

It is twilight. Shadows creep to cover an empty, dusty road. An owl swoops from a tree off into the dark and in the distance a wolf howls mournfully.

He is alone.

For an eternity he stares down his past, with only the cold stars above as witness to his tears. Then he violently swipes his sleeve across them, squares his shoulders, and stalks onward to face his destiny.

He reaches the border village not too far past nightfall. With a pocket loaded in ill-gotten gold, he strides into the tavern with an easy saunter and his most dashing grin. The barmaid, only a bit older than him, is intrigued enough to ask his name.

"The name's Flynn Rider," he answers without hesitation, and knows himself all grown up.

* * *

Somewhere in the wood echoes a sound like a slow, persistent woodpecker. Others might know it as the sound of a head banging against a tree. Of course it can't be either. Not when the sound carries on unceasingly, for days and nights, long after a woodpecker should have dropped dead from exhaustion or a man from devastating brain damage.

In the depths of Corona's woods, an ancient oak stands with a permanent dent pounded into its trunk.

It is testament to an idiot's inability to explain Corona is his life and soul, what keeps him alive where other languages have warped his sense of self beyond recognition. The kingdom is his home and his prison. To lose it is to lose himself.

It is also proof he is an utter coward, one that couldn't face his own kid after he looked at him as something less than human, like a...

It's better this way. For the both of them.

...For one of them, at least.

(No. It isn't. Not at all.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... I always intended for the movie plot to start more or less on the rails, until our idiots flail themselves into it in attempts to guide their kids, and then flail all over each other.
> 
> The Epitaph of Seikilos is the oldest full surviving piece of recorded music left to us. It's inscribed on a funeral stele and the antithesis of Gothel's little song. Which made me wanna use it even more.


	7. a very big day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynn steals himself a crown. Word spreads fast.
> 
> Whether his kid has faith or not, Tulio will always be there to save his skin.
> 
> He is not the only dad out in those woods with something to protect.

Flynn just wants _out._ Out of Corona forever, out of his relationship with the lovely Stabbington Brothers, out of a life lived by the skin of his teeth.

But in this life you need to get in to get out. And the only way to get in is to get _up._

Corona Castle is all steep towers and slanting roofs. One misstep is a fatal fall to the hard stone below. Beyond every great gamble is a prize worth seizing.

Blessed with not only good looks, but a natural sense of balance honed by years of climbing trees and houses, Flynn vaults over drops and scales sleek stone. Behind him lumber the brothers, whom he affectionately calls Sideburns and Patchy. But only secretly. To call them that out loud is a one-way trip to being knifed and dropped in a dark alley.

With a few moments to kill, Flynn leans anxiously over to check the paths of the guards patrolling below. Instead his eye is riveted to the scene beyond, Corona unfurling on its hill and the shimmering sea. He whistles appreciatively to a sight only birds and royals are privy too.

"Wow! I could get used to a view like this."

Maybe out on the Mediterranean. All that lovely salt air without Corona's biting winters.

"Flynn, come on."

"Hold on." Because Flynn is loathe to take orders from anyone, especially nominal partners, he soaks up that view and breathes in that sea breeze for good measure. "Yep, I'm used to it. Guys, I want my own castle."

"We do this job, you could buy your own castle."

Flynn barely has time to process what Sideburns says before a rough hand grabs him by the collar of his vest and hauls him back like a naughty puppy. Flynn rolls his eyes at such melodramatics and let's himself be tied up without a fuss.

Corona is a small, prosperous nation rich in trade and poor in armies. All its closest allies also happen to be relatives close in line for the throne. King Frederic stands as its long independent monarch. And its last. His kingdom has prayed for another miracle heir since the first up and vanished. But Queen Arianna has had no further children.

What Corona has is a grand throne room, draped in gold and violet, guarded at all times since the princess' disappearance. They are not there for the two seats dedicated to the monarch and consort. These men stand alert, halberds at the ready, over the marble pedestal between them. Upon it rests the diamond crown intended for Corona's future queen, and Corona's future queen alone. It is not locked away with the rest of the crown jewels but always kept waiting for the royal daughter, whose return is imminent. Always imminent.

The throne room has been a shrine for near as long as Flynn can remember. The soldiers here stand guard over Corona's dream of continued independence, a princess that will return the day King Sebastian sails forth on a foggy day to reclaim Portugal. The crown is worth a killing. It is something to be killed over.

Flynn doesn't dare breathe as he's lowered down. He tries his best not to move, lest he catch a guard by the corners of their eye.

But the guards stare out to face an enemy that can come from any direction but up. Because they're dull, dutiful guys with no imagination. In a heartbeat his future is safely tucked away.

When a guard sneezes, Flynn is cocky enough to smirk.

"Hay fever?"

"Yeah," the man glibly agrees. Then he jerks as he realizes the voice came from _behind._

By the time the guards think to look up Flynn is one the roof and free of the rope. By the time they rally he and the Stabbington Brothers are pelting down the bridge.

Without horses. Horses can be distinctive and easily tracked. On foot they stand more chance of slipping off anonymously, of losing mounted riders in the deep forest cover.

Flynn is so giddy he rambles all the way from the city out into the woods. His life has changed for the better today, and it's only eight in the morning! He's gonna get himself a castle, a ship, his own damned private island! The Stabbingtons stare bloody murder at him until he starts panting for breath and falls silent. It's almost like these killjoys are physically incapable of enjoying the biggest score of their lives.

There's nothing that can run today. Nothing!

Except....

"No," he gasps in horror, as he beholds the wanted posters nailed to the tree before him. "No, no, no. This is bad. This is very, very, very bad." In dismay Flynn shows the horror to his companions. "They just can't get my nose right."

The rest of his handsome visage is there, winning grin and all. So how come these crappy artists give him little pug noses or the biggest schnozzes to ever curse a human face?

"Who cares?" sneers Sideburns, as if his own poster didn't capture him and his brother in all of their brutal glory.

They thunder of hooves makes them look up. On the cliffs above loom armed riders, helms and chest plates gleaming gold. The leader brandishes his sword at them as he leads the charge down. The Stabbingtons lead the way deeper into the forest. They don't get very far before the trail narrows in on all sides, closing them into a natural pen. The only way out is up.

Flynn runs his fingers over the cliff face. His hands find no purchase.

"All right," he sighs. "Okay. Give me a boost and I'll pull you up."

The brothers glare up at the cliff and back at Flynn's scrawny form. Only then do they concede the math doesn't match up otherwise. So instead Sideburns thrusts out a meaty hand. "Give us the satchel first."

Flynn makes his eyes go big and wounded as he tries the hurt friend gambit. His only response is deadpan stares. There are just some people too thick or stubborn to be suckered into something. So he rolls his eyes, surrenders his prize, and sulks just enough for the brothers to put their guard down.

The wall is tall enough that Sideburns has to climb onto Patchy's shoulders. Flynn is not gentle scrambling his way up them both. His hands linger in sensitive places and his boot plants into Sideburns' face. By the time they realize what's happened he has the high ground and one priceless relic all to himself. That's what brutes get for never learning to pickpocket with finesse.

"Ryder!" Sideburns roars after him. Flynn grins and picks up a second wind.

Unfortunately Flynn explodes from the undergrowth onto a path wide enough for the cavalry to barrel down on him. And they do so like he's the prize stag.

Flynn vaults over a fallen tree. Several violent _twangs_ make him look down. He squeaks at the crossbow bolts that came inches away from hitting him instead.

Flynn swerves down another path, sharp and narrow. He angles for a low-slung tree. He clambers through its branches no problem. Behind him the horses whinny shrilly and their riders curse as they find the tree not so accessible. But not all of them. One rider has the quick thinking to guide his mount over the central fork. Those hooves thunder after him.

"We got him now, Maximus!" the captain cries.

Flynn wants to mock the idiot for giving his _horse_ a pep talk. That white stallion surging forward with terrible new speed makes him think otherwise.

So instead the thief leaps up. His fingers close around a vine. The momentum carries him near full circle. By the time the captain realizes what's happening, it's too late. He can barely raise his crossbow before Flynn knocks him from the saddle. He smirks, settles in, and snaps the reins for an easy getaway.

Maximus plows to a dead halt, so abruptly Flynn smacks into his broad neck. He just manages to right himself when the stallion's head snaps around. Intelligent brown eyes _glare_ at him.

"What?" Flynn blurts.

Then the stallion's eyes fixate on the satchel. His teeth snap after it with terrible, knowing intent. This is how Flynn gets into keep away with a horse. A horse he hog wrestles to the ground, one who retaliates by trying to smash his fingers when he climbs out onto the tree branch. Only when that ancient wood snaps ominously do they both realize horses aren't meant to be walking out in tree branches.

Together they plummet hundreds of feet to the ruthless ground below, and the stupidest death a thief can think of.

* * *

Tulio groans into the ample bosom of his bedmate as he reluctantly comes to. It can't be anywhere near noon yet. Sensible thieves are nocturnal.

He frowns as his throbbing headache gives way to echoing whispers. All of Corona buzzes with the news, a message too grave to let him sleep in. His eyes bulge when he hears _crown stolen_ and _Flynn Ryder._

No. No, no, no.

"This is bad," he mutters as he rolls out of the hayloft. "This is bad. This is really, really, bad."

When the hell had Flynn even come back? He gallivants his way through too many territories to keep track of. It keeps him abreast of the law and awkward family reunions. Unfortunately, it also hinders Tulio's ability to keep accurate tabs on his location.

But not now. This morning the kingdom screams Flynn's whereabouts loud and clear, because the search party is closing in.

"Sorry, sweetheart!" he calls over his shoulder, to the woman still blinking through her hangover. "I've got an idiot son to save!"

Once Tulio clears the barn he drops the pretense of a human form. Months, if not years, of carefully garnered power are burned off in seconds as he flies fast as the speed of thought. The furiously determined search party blazes like a bonfire to him.

Weaving through the trees, Tulio closes the distance between them just as the soldiers lower their crossbows, Flynn a clear target. His cry of horror is lost, one more bird call in a forest of startled beasts.

Another burst of power shifts the odds just so. Flynn leaps a little higher, the crossbow bolts dip a little lower. They all sink into wood rather than living flesh.

Not that the kid is out of the woods yet.

"We've got him now, Maximus!"

_Oh f-_

Tulio smacks into a tree. He's exhausted and terrified, and his son just ran into an ex-horse god that survived by taking his job way, _way_ too seriously.

It's Flynn's own quick thinking that makes him lunge for a vine before the captain of the guard can launch a crossbow bolt into his back. Skill and grace have him swing around to knock the man from his saddle. It's his own shitty luck, the same Tulio rubbed off on him, that makes him land bestride the stallion that considers himself the embodiment of Corona's law and order.

Spitting out a beakful of splinters, Tulio anxiously flutters into the canopy above them. He's got one more miracle to spare, and waits for a damn good reason to use it. He's taught Flynn all he knows. Tulio's danced circles around old Maximus for centuries. His kid should be able to escape all on his own, crown or no crown.

_Er, getting a little far out there, kid._

That branch is maybe just strong enough to take Flynn's weight. The same cannot be said when a full-grown warhorse charges his way on too.

When Maximus stomps after Flynn's fingers, Tulio erupts from his tree with the single-minded goal of pecking the fucker's eyes out.

The branch snaps.

Tulio dives after Flynn. Belatedly he recalls he's currently a puny little wryneck, and his kid a grown man.

So instead he flares his wings, gritting his beak as he strains against gravity without the distraction of shifting shape.

Flynn leaps away from the branch, toward the thickest looking set of branches he can find. Tulio helps get him there. The arc of his fall curves just so. Soft green leaves of the upper tree help cushion his descent, already miraculously slowed beyond terminal velocity. He lands a bit dazed but without so much as a bruise.

Tulio wilts in relief, just before he slams into a tree down below. Despite his small size his open, brittle wings shatter on impact. The pain last only heartbeats, for Tulio's carved out too vital a niche in Corona to be downed for long. Even as he heals he just lays there, breathless and weary.

Maximus slides down a steep hill of soft grass. For a time he also lies there, broken by a fall that should have killed him. His fractured ribs heal partly from Corona's burning need to have the crown of the lost princess returned, and partly from sheer force of will. He snaps up with zealous intent. His head snaps around for Flynn. Tulio, currently a tiny little bird with natural camouflage, remains happily hunkered against his tree trunk.

With no better leads, Maximus eventually sticks his nose to the ground, and starts sniffing like a bloodhound. He wanders right past the rock pile where Flynn lies hidden. Tulio's been enough rock piles over the millennia that the stones reflexively obfuscate his son's scent, because this is Corona and Flynn one of his thieves.

But Flynn doesn't know that. Training tells him to keep moving. And move he does, right under the curtain of ivy Tulio thought concealed only a rock wall or a niche at best.

When Flynn doesn't emerge, even after Maximus prowls past, Tulio's little bird heart hammers faster than normal. He flutters down to investigate. Right before he reaches the ivy he smacks into a barrier woven into the cliff, one that urges him to look away, to leave and forget. Psh. Amateurs. Tulio was both a thief god and a boundary god. There is no power in this world that can keep him from where he wants to go.

Unfortunately, this is a knack he may have also passed down to his kid. Flynn has always seen a bit too much. He also has inherited a sense of curiosity potentially lethal to anyone not at least partially immortal.

So he squeaks and darts through the curtain. Beyond is a small cave that opens up into a natural grotto, complete with a forsaken tower beside a secret river. Flynn stands in awe of it.

Tulio also thought he knew these woods like the back of his hand. Apparently he hadn't or, even more worryingly, conveniently forgot this place existed.

...There's a troll in that tower, isn't there? Or a lindworm nesting in its base. Hell, why not both? It's been that sort of day.

Tulio chirps in stern warning. Just because he doesn't have the energy to shift shape doesn't mean he can't warn his idiot son away from the obvious trap.

But his thickheaded kid doesn't even glance down at him. Why would he? He hasn't wanted anything to do with Tulio in years, much less listen to him. Tulio could appear as a rabid wolf, and his kid would still be willfully blind and deaf to him. Stubbornness is a family tradition. So are daddy issues.

They both freeze at Maximus' distant, ominous whinny. Faced between the unnatural tower and the horse, Flynn chooses _death._

Tulio decides to teach him otherwise by flying for his eyes. Flynn doesn't even mindlessly brush him off. Tulio passes through him like a shade.

Like his kid just can't believe him in any way, shape, or form.

Which is... fair. Tulio totally deserves that.

But Flynn does not deserve to die as anything less than an old man, much less be ripped apart by a monster that forgot they aren't supposed to exist outside of fairy tales anymore. So Tulio buzzes around him like an angry hornet, beak and claws scrabbling futilely at his kid while he climbs up that stupid tower. Maybe if he squawks enough biting insults, something will finally get through.

_"You impulsive, greedy **idiot!** If you didn't want to be like me, why did you **become** me?"_

As Flynn climbs higher, Tulio's rage crumbles into sheer, desperate fear.

_"I should have tried harder to find you a better home, okay? No, I just should have given you one myself. I should have been honest with you, should have taught you to be honest. I-I should have been all that my dad wasn't, okay? I-I'm s-_

A black shadow falls over them, as a presence, burning and terrible, sights its prey. Flynn has his back to it.

With a terrible shriek, Tulio rises to face it.

* * *

Flynn pauses, glances down to the sight of two birds trying to claw each other's eyes out, and keeps climbing.

Eh. It's nature.

He climbs in the tower to happily close its shutters to the unpleasant sounds outside. He sighs in relief, patting his satchel.

"Alone at last."

_CLANG._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given Corona's implied wealth and the extreme faith they put in their lost princess returning, I imagine their succession was in dire straits otherwise. And people historically get... passionate when their independence might be on the line. King Sebastian of Portugal was the last heir of Aviz, born after his father died, and succeeded his grandson as a young child. He raised by very pious Jesuits that gave him great piety and... unrealistic expectations. Young and unmarried, Sebastian went off to crusade in Morocco, disappeared in battle, and effectively ended Portugal's independence from Spain with him. It was believed he would one day sail home on a foggy morning to save his people.
> 
> Why, yes, Maximus is also a former god. One REALLY into justice. He might share a background with Altivo from my main verse as an aspect of a Iberian horse god otherwise lost to time. We'll see.
> 
> Hermes-Mercury is a god of winged omens. To the Greco-Romans, few beat the wryneck bird. Also historically called the jinx bird. Mostly because the little buggers have long necks and will writhe like possessed if caught or threatened.


	8. finally feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two idiots find each other. And remember all the reasons they get along like oil and water.
> 
> Unfortunately for them, their kids strike a deal, and happen to get along like a house on fire.

Talons and a curved beak tear into him. Tulio takes every blow and viciously deals them back. Instinctively he reaches for a form just as brutal. Tired and distracted, only the bare essentials get through. He winds up an unholy amalgamation of owl and wryneck, shrieking furiously as his talons claw for green, green eyes.

Wait...

Tulio and his opponent pause, tangled up in each other. Tulio squints. The hawk squints back. Beyond the intensity of his stare, his eyes are like springtime. In the sunlight his feathers glint gold, like...

Oh.

Oh no.

"Oh," murmurs the hawk, expression lost. "It's... It's _you."_

The voice is familiar, achingly so. Memories of the old days flit back in the oddest hours. Tulio hears it every night, in his deepest sleep, when he walks somewhere between death and dream. It is the only place he feels whole and at peace.

Tulio shivers. The hawk flinches back. The inches between them yawn vast and deep as millennium, and all the last one swallowed up.

With the hawk struck silent, Tulio rallies. He finds the cold focus to fully abandon his old shape for the imposing glare of the eagle-owl. This stranger before him knows nothing less.

"Tulio," he supplies coldly, before he hears that stupid legend Corona formed around him. Or, far worse, the name of a dead god.

The hawk shrinks even further, retreating into his wings. "Miguel," he offers quietly, like it's supposed to be a peace offering.

A laugh, hoarse and humorless, rasps out of him. " _That's_ what she saddled you with?"

The hawk ruffles his feathers indignantly. "I chose it myself, thank you."

 _"Of course_ you did."

"W-What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Why are you even here?" Tulio hisses, as the last of his shock kindles back into rage.

He expects the bastard to flinch back. Instead he looms forward with a glare unsurprisingly even more self-righteous than ever. "Striking down the damn thief who scared my daughter half to death!"

"...What?" Then Tulio explodes with panic, as he scales up the likely threat in that tower from troll into something much, much worse. Because this idiot's most memorable daughter had twelve tentacles for legs and six dog's heads at her waist. _"What!_ How many heads does this one have? I swear if I find my kid in pieces I'll-"

"She has just the one head, thank you! And what do you mean by _my kid?"_

"Exactly what it sounds like! My idiot kid is about to get himself devoured by Scylla's sister!"

Tulio spreads his wings to rocket atop that tower and hopefully rescue at least most of his son. Miguel's sharp, mocking laugh stops him cold.

"So it's not just a favorite thief out to harass an innocent maiden, is it? No. It's one you should have taught to know better!"

Tulio flinches. Then he counters that painfully valid point with another just as obvious. "Says the dad that locked _his_ kid up in a tower at the ass end of the kingdom. That thing doesn't even have a proper door!"

The hawk falters. "She... can leave whenever she wants too! Er, in theory. I've been building up her confidence for... a while. Any year now she's bound to do it! What does it say about _your_ parenting that your son's first instinct is to climb up a random tower where any poor soul may be hiding?"

A thousand years of pent up grief and hatred have finally found a worthy outlet.

Tulio lets him have it.

* * *

Outside resonates the awful racket of two birds furiously screeching at each other. Rapunzel hasn't heard an argument this awful since that spring that absent-minded oriole blundered into the nest of one very angry family of crows. Normally something this dramatic might be the highlight of her month, but the unconscious form sprawled before her is sorta a higher priority at the moment.

After several heartbeats of cowering behind her mannequin, Rapunzel peaks out for another look. The person (well, probably a person) doesn't even twitch.

Oh. Oh, dear. She hasn't killed them, has she?

Curiosity outweighing her dread, Rapunzel scoots her mannequin closer. And closer. It remains a makeshift barrier, just in case this alleged person is only playing dead, but they even don't move when she gets within grabbing range.

Cautiously she inches closer enough to prod the intruder with her handy frying pan. She wilts in relief when nothing happens. Should she smack them again, just to make sure they stay down and dead, or...

Rapunzel looks to Pascal. He shrugs dubiously back. She has no choice but to investigate further.

With the intruder face down on the floor, she turns their head aside with the frying pan. The sunlight reveals a human face, though with features larger and more angled than her own, with a tuft of hair on the chin. Suddenly the broad shoulders and intriguingly short hair are more than oddities.

Rapunzel glances down her best friend and trusted confidant. Pascal is far from reassured. He scurries to the drawing painted by Mother; human on the outside, but with pointy teeth that will devour her up without a second thought. Pascal flares as bright red as the paint, curling his paws into fangs to drive his point home.

The handle of her frying pan tilts up the stranger's lip, revealing teeth as white and blunt as her own. Rapunzel relaxes, before her head tilts in curiosity.

Ah. This must be the elusive male of her species. Not a man with pointy teeth, but an _actual_ man. Not the most impressive man, considering his beard only covers his chin, but that's still more facial hair than Rapunzel has ever managed to grow herself. Mother's silly little jokes about Rapunzel needing to wax her upper lip are nothing in comparison.

A lock of hair obscures his eyes. She brushes it aside. The full sight of it is... breathtaking, like the first time she saw a rainbow, or realized the special stars that floated up only on her birthday. She needs to sketch, she needs to paint, she needs to compose a whole song about this moment.

Instead she stands and stares in a moment that lasts eternity.

Then brown eyes fly open.

Rapunzel instinctively brings her weapon down.

Oops. Perhaps that was a bit _too_ hard. She checks for a pulse, and sighs when she finds it.

Wrangling an unconscious, unwieldy man into her closet is hard work. She's out of breath by the time she shuts the doors on him.

"Okay," she pants to herself. "Okay. I got a person in my closet." She considers her reflection, crouched and almost _capable_ _._ Her, capable! Like Mother, or- She laughs, twirling her weapon of choice. _"I've_ got a person in my closet! 'Too weak to handle myself,' huh, Mother? Well, tell that to my frying pan here!"

The sun shines just so. At first she thinks the light is winking at her. But, no, that's silly even for her. It's just something sparkling from the man's bag.

Rapunzel inspects it. It's pretty, with three sparkly stones like clear teardrops set into a golden band of flowers. Impractical, yes, but pretty. It's much too wide for her wrist and ineffective as a magnifying glass. Pascal shakes his head at the absurdity. But it's almost the right size for _her_ head, if not a chameleon's, so Rapunzel faces the mirror.

The weight of the thing is somehow heavy as the world and light as the dawn. Her reflection, crowned in shimmering stones and golden flowers, feels... comfortable. Right, even, the feeling of her fingers around a paintbrush or the strings of her guitar.

Once more she tuns to Pascal. He squints, cross-eyed, and tilts his head until he near falls over.

"What is it?" she murmurs, stooping down to help him up, before another voice stops her cold.

"Rapunzel, let down your hair!"

Rapunzel grins. Suddenly the thing is worthless, against the reward that awaits proving herself a capable woman! She stuffs it back into its satchel, tossing the whole mess into a pot without a second thought.

Mother hasn't bothered with the old ladder in years. Rapunzel's hair is long enough to carry her right up. With the iron hook to help act as support, she hardly feels the ache of lugging up such weight anymore. Wheeling up Mother tonight takes no time at all, when Rapunzel is near ready to explode from her surprise.

Once Mother finishes speaking, of course. It's the respectful child _and_ the mature adult that lets their mother speak first. Hazel nut soup is nice, really, and she's never had the heart to tell Mother the dish has never been her favorite, but... She has a _man_ in her _closet._ Just this once, Rapunzel might have outdid her there. If she can just-

"Rapunzel, we're done talking about this."

"But trust me, I-"

"Rapunzel."

"-know what I'm-"

 _"Rapunzel!"_ Mother's voice cracks like lightning. "You are not leaving this tower, _EVER."_ Rapunzel's limp hand falls from the door knob. Mother's fury drains out of her, quick as it came. She slumps wearily into a chair. "Great, now _I'm_ the bad guy."

Green eyes trail from her mural of stars, down to the chair holding her prisoner at bay.

"All I was gonna say, Mother, is that... I know what I want for my birthday now."

"And what is _that?"_

"New paint," she blurts out, unsure of where the words even spring up from. "That paint from the white shells you once brought me."

Yes, Rapunzel knows it's a very long trip, almost three days' time. Only a few years ago did Mother trust Rapunzel alone for such a length of time. Of course, she also knows the tower is safety, and that she is safe as long as she remains within its walls. It is a difficult gift, but more reachable than the stars in the sky. Despite her wariness, Mother still softens, and embraces her child at such a mature peace offering.

"I love you very much, dear."

"I love you more." That much is true, even if it does not quite blunt the guilty dagger to her heart.

"And I love you most."

Mother tenderly kisses her on the brow, like she has from Rapunzel's earliest memories. She closes her eyes and tries to savor it, not to not think that she has told her biggest lie since omitting Pascal's existence from her life.

As Mother vanishes into the dark of the cavern, the furthest Rapunzel has ever glimpsed the world beyond the clearing, she silently vows to be right here in three days' time. Right where Mother expects her to be.

Here she shall stay, and be content. Forever. Mother deserves nothing less from her daughter, for her breaking her trust like this to begin with.

First, the stars.

* * *

_Flynn's dreamed some weird dreams._

_This one is weirder than most._

_Once more he walks a road, a very familiar one, one that was seared into his mind after traveling it ten thousand times. Jeez, why do these sorts of dreams always have rock piles and naked statues watching him from every bend? Even the sun, so low it swallows the whole sky, is nothing new. Logically he should be burning beneath it. Flynn always feels cozy beneath it, like a mild spring day._

_The ambiance is a new one, though. At first he thinks the sun and the shadows by the wood are arguing with each other. But, no, even by dream logic that's stupid. Clearly those are just birds fighting, shrieking at each other from the rocks and the trees, the clouds and the brushes._

_Briefly the dream flickers. Flynn stares up into eyes like springtime. Then he tastes breakfast and comes back to the wood._

_Huh. Apparently he speaks bird now. Neat._

_"You, you pretentious cur, are loquacious to a fault!"_

_"You... mincing, sanctimonious twit!"_

_Flynn tunes them out in favor of staring at the sun. Because one of its rays steps down to touch the road._

_No, not a ray of light, but a girl just as radiant. Flynn grins as her breath tickles his ear, because apparently this is one of **those** dreams after-_

He yelps as the girl of his dreams jams a long, sticky tongue into his ear canal. The wetness lingers even after he jerks awake an aching head and numbed limbs. He frowns down at his bonds, so unlike any rope or shackle he's felt before, and he's no stranger to either. These ties are too thick, and blond, and feel almost like...

"Is... Is this _hair?"_

Flynn's disbelieving gaze follows the hair from his wrists, to a table, up past a balcony to a shadow crouched in the rafters.

"Struggling... struggling is pointless. I know why you're here, and I'm not afraid of you."

"What?" he blurts out.

Because, _what?_

"Who are you, and how did you find me?"

Flynn squints after the shadow as it nimbly drops. She, actually, by the sound of that high, bullshitting voice. In the shadows he can just make out the girl glaring at him, with some sort of cooking ware brandished high.

At last his captor steps into the sun. Her impossibly thick, long hair glimmers as if every strand is true gold. Flynn is fully aware he gapes like an idiot as he beholds this... this veritable goddess, with green eyes and a scowl trying its damnedest to keep her fear at bay.

"Who are you," she repeats, "and how did you find me?"

Flynn clears his throat, trying for his most elegant. "I know not you who are, nor how I came to find you, but may I just say..."

Ah, to hell with the bullshit. He isn't the old not-a-man, to string spellbound marks along like that. So instead he puts on his best grin and goes for his brand of good, honest charm. "Hi, how you doing? The name's Flynn Ryder. How's it going, huh?"

The girl moves from wary into confused, which is a step in the right direction. Then her eyes narrow as she swings the frying pan his way. He flinches back. "Who else knows my location, _Flynn Ryder?"_

Crazy hermit girl in the middle of nowhere. All right, so much on that dream. Time to get back to the one already in hand.

"All right, Blondie-"

"Rapunzel."

Like... Like the vegetable? But, tied up in _Rapunzel's_ hair, that is not the hill to die on. "Bless you," he dismisses instead. "Here's the thing. I was in a situation, gallivanting through the forest. I came across your tower and..." He glances wildly around, without a single satchel or absurdly valuable crown in sight. "Ho, ho no, where is my satchel?"

Pleased with herself, Blondie has the gall to cross her arms. "I hid it. Somewhere you'll never find it."

An expert thief appraises the room. "It's in that pot, isn't it?"

_CLANG._

_And again with the old married couple._

_"You fight like my sister!"_

_"I fought your sister! That's a compliment!"_

Once more Flynn opens his eyes to a tongue shoved into his ear. He is horrified and relieved beyond words to discover it belongs to a lizard, and not to Rapunzel.

"Would you _stop that?"_

Disconcertingly not only is he still tied up in Blondie's hair, but he is somehow smugger than last time. "Now it's hidden where you'll never find it. So, what do you want with my hair? To cut it?"

"...What?"

"To sell it?"

"No! Listen, the only thing I want to do with your hair, is to get out of it. Literally."

It takes forever for the girl to believe him. But Flynn means what he says. While she debates with her lizard, like any sane human being would do, he tries to wriggle his way to freedom. And falls flat on his face. His poor, poor face.

Blondie just wants to go see the lantern thing and be escorted home safely, like Flynn's one of those tour guides that try hawking their services to the stupider and richer of Corona's foreign visitors. He posed as one a lot back in the day, when he was young and innocent-looking, while the thieving bastard waited in an ally to rob those idiots blind. Flynn's used a lot dumber pretenses for getting personal time with people this cute.

Maybe, just maybe, he'd have said yes, if Corona didn't bay for his blood.

"Something brought you here, Flynn Ryder. Call it what you will; fate, destiny."

Terrible life decisions. "A horse?"

"So I have made the decision for you."

"A horrible decision, really."

Rapunzel drags him close, like he's a fish on the line, until only inches divide them. "But trust me, when I tell you this: You can tear this tower apart, brick by brick, but without my help, you will never find your precious satchel."

Flynn shivers at the commanding tone of her voice, one that brooks no argument, at how perilously she tilts his chair to the floor. But only a little out of fear.

...Well. He's learned some things about himself today.

He clears his throat, dragging his mind back from the gutter. "Let me just get this straight. I take you to see the lanterns, bring you back home, and you'll give me back my satchel?"

Out loud it sounds just as stupid. But Blondie does not laugh. "I promise. And when I promise something, I never break that promise. Ever!"

Dammit, he wants to say yes. _Needs_ to say yes. But what he needs more is a head on his shoulders, and an unbroken neck. And all his limbs, assuming Corona rules him worthy of the old crowd favorite of drawing and quartering. And a life without seeing the lanterns up close is more life than Rapunzel will ever have if she's arrested as his accomplice.

With no other option, he brings out the smolder.

Her bewildered stare promptly kills it.

Well, it _has_ been an off day today. First, intelligent horses and fighting birds. Why not add beautiful crazy girls and glaring, color-changing lizards to the list?

* * *

"Braggart!"

"Heathen!"

Miguel bites his tongue hard enough to bleed, but that terrible alienating word is already out there. He hesitates, torn between groveling an apology or remaining silent so M- _(Tulio)_ can justly rip him a new one.

The silence continues, drawing out from horrified, down into anxious and then vaguely bewildered. As Tulio keeps glaring, unmoved, Miguel belatedly realizes it's _his_ turn in the volley of insults. He gawks at Tulio, surprised he could even get that one out without choking on the irony.

"I-I... Are you _serious?"_

Somewhere in their fighting they've lost their grip on the physical world, all the better to rage as only anthropomorphized ideals can. Tulio is no longer just a shrieking wryneck or eagle-owl, but an amorphous shadow of every fearsome shape he's ever worn. That seething mass writhes especially large as Miguel splutters on his disbelief.

"What else do you a god that spurns all that he was, that sold his soul to the same saints that called for the people to tear down their temples?"

Miguel, mostly a ball of light on this particular plane, dims even further. He flashes back down to that day by a spring-swollen river, and the one who had waited for him there.

"I-I never-"

The shadows laugh. "Thinking back, you jumped ship on us centuries before things turned to shit. This all started when you stole that stupid flower cult!"

"E-Excuse me?"

"Just like you stole Delphi from that earth goddess! You just always had to make yourself the center of attention!"

"Says the _thief god_ still stealing every soul he can!"

"My plan was to lie low, remember? Ride out the death of our cults and transition with dignity? But your plan was to run off and go 'Oh, look at me. Look at me. I'm a saint!'"

"I-I never... She just..."

Miguel trails off, as he suddenly remembers the source of such grief today. "Rapunzel," he squeaks in horror.

The shadows shudder with a sound like wind the trees. "Flynn!"

They dredge themselves from each other's pain and back into searing reality, winded but physical by the end. Gothel's protective magic, woven thick and choking in the past few years, stands unchanged. Because its precious flower is still alive to conceal. The thief - _Flynn,_ climbs down on his own, seemingly unharmed. Miguel and Tulio sag each against other in relief, before they remember themselves and furiously pull away.

Miguel forgets all hatred when Rapunzel appears in the window. His heart flies to his throat as she peers anxiously down at the ground below, like she's about to -

With one last look back, his little girl leaps. Her hair unfurls like a tapestry as she descends. But, inches from the ground, she dangles as if the last step is beyond her.

"Come on," he murmurs, with only a thief to hear.

Miguel has witnessed miracles and worked them. He proudly watched his children create whole new art forms and one son raise the dead. Rapunzel's bare feet touching naked grass somehow outshines them all.

"Oh," he whispers. "Oh, sunshine."

He steps forward to embrace her, to pour out his love and his overwhelming pride, to assure her she is safe and she is _free._

But only physically. And temporarily. Her heart is weighed down by her guilt, her solemn promise to return. Miguel feels fear before he can reach her.

Right now he also happens to be a few inches tall, and capable of expressing emotion only through song. He still nestles in her hair to sing it all anyway.

Rapunzel pauses. Then she falls absolutely still, except for the grin stretching out her face as she tries to stare back up at him. From her shoulder Pascal heaves a fond, long suffering sigh.

 _"Miguel!"_ Tulio hisses scandalously, from the cover of the grass. _"Miguel, get back here! Stop... Stop arousing suspicion!"_

He does have a point there. Rapunzel doesn't consciously remember him, let alone know she is a princess with two more parents and a whole kingdom anxiously awaiting her return. Not yet, anyway. And it's not Miguel's place to tell her. It is her own free will, not his constant encouragement, that finally lured her down from that damned tower. Now her heart must lead her home.

Besides, the Lord works in mysterious ways. So do His saints. Even the folk ones dismissed by every orthodox church. In this day and age overt wonders died out a long time ago. The miracles left are more... purposefully ambiguous. Miguel can be subtle too, the silent force that sees his little girl home at last, and Gothel thwarted in her attempts to claw her back.

Rapunzel's out of the tower and Gothel gone for days. What's the worst that can happen?

* * *

Blondie makes absolutely no move to disturb the oriole that's fallen in love with her hair or something. The idiots always keep trying to fight their own reflections, so maybe this one is just especially stupid. Flynn waits for it to fly off. And waits. He's treated to a whole rousing rendition of what almost sounds like an actual song before he takes action into his own hands.

"Blondie? Pst, Blondie. That looks like a _lot_ of hair to wash, so maybe you should shoo your buddy off before-"

Flynn makes the wrong move. The oriole replies by flying for his eyes. He squawks and falls back on his ass to escape the yellow little bastard, disturbing _yet another bird_ from the grass.

This one thankfully is a dull brown woodpecker. It flies after the oriole. From below he and Blondie watch the birds buzz around each other like angry bees, chittering furiously, before they chase each other off into the trees.

Ugh. Nature. When Flynn gets his stupid satchel he's buying a castle on a deserted island, with no animals in sight.

Blondie gapes after the birds, eyes wide in confusion and wonder. Then she goes bolting through the meadow like a little girl escaping her caretaker for the first time.

Flynn sighs and goes after her, because now he feels emotionally obligated to keep her from getting eaten by wolves. Or arrested by overly zealous soldiers.

Hooray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apollo's kids, by various accounts, include Asclepius (the healer god who could raise the dead) and... Scylla. Yes, THAT Scylla. So Tulio was understandably freaked by Flynn messing with the wrong daughter. And given their past histories (and those shared by many of their sons)... Yeah, Miguel was kinda justified in thinking unpleasant things of Flynn too.
> 
> Apollo kinda had a thing for stealing other people's cults. Like absorbing Paean and Helios' cults into his own. Or stealing Delphi and its oracle from an older earth goddess. The cult around Corona's magic flowers originally was centered around a native goddess, because Romans were relative latecomers to the area.
> 
> You remember those folk saints (Aelia and Saint Shepherd) that King Frederic prayed too? How Aelia just chilled by a river before this very angry guy ranted his head off at her, before she made him carry across the river anyway? Yep, bad blood for a reason, because Miguel's been dead to Tulio since he got himself adopted as a folk saint. Oops. 
> 
> And there's actual historical precedence for stuff like this happening! Saint Guinefort was a literal French dog. Given that the canonical Saint Brigid shares a lot (and I mean A LOT) of similarities and story motifs with the Celtic goddess Brigid, and doesn't have solid evidence on her being an actual physical person... Yeah.
> 
> My original plan for this story was to have Tulio and Miguel as chill folk hero like types chilling in the background and masterminding an attempt to bring their kids together, but I needed to have more plot on their end, and why Rapunzel and Flynn developed the way they did. So that's where Saint Shepherd (who prefers his personal and private name to not be aired like dirty laundry, thank you) came into being.
> 
> And then you have the Highwayman, friend to the thieves and stealer of souls from their good Christian paths.


	9. find your humanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Flynn's big mouth and bad planning nearly gets him killed. Again.
> 
> Fortunately for him there's someone else in his corner.

Flynn Ryder does not do kids. At all. Swashbuckling thieves have the self-respect to not corrupt or endanger minors in hapless schemes, thank you very much.

Rapunzel is an emotional wreck, dragging him along for all her highs and lows. At times he has to wait for her to roll down hills or hop out into ponds to admire waterlilies. It's endearing for all of five minutes the first three times she pulls these stunts. When she isn't experiencing the joys of life outside solitary confinement, she's moping. And good gods can she mope. Upon reaching the cave to the outside world she huddles up and mumbles to herself. Outside she bangs her heads against tree trunks or sulks in their branches.

Is... Is this what parenthood feels like? If so then Flynn grudgingly admires his own shitty caretaker for not abandoning him years ago. After _three hours_ with Rapunzel he's ready to curl up and sleep for three days, and it's still the early afternoon.

When Rapunzel skips down from a rock pile to sob at its base, Flynn's heart twists. Despite this being like the tenth time he's witnessed Blondie break down.

Then dawns a plan to solve all their their problems.

"You know, I can't help but notice you seem a little at war with yourself here?"

Rapunzel sniffles and looks up, big green eyes bright from her tears. "Really?"

_Blondie, I could write books on your drama._

But that's the kind of sardonic comment that will only make her pissed, so Flynn swallows the sarcasm he uses to build up credibility among rough and callous thieves. "The whole day. Bits and pieces, really; overprotective mother, forbidden road trip. This is serious stuff. But let me ease your conscience. This is part of growing up. A little rebellion, a little adventure. That's good, healthy even."

Rapunzel laughs, joy shining through like the sun emerging from the clouds. "You think?"

She almost, _almost_ makes him regret what has to come next.

"I know. You're way overthinking your stress meter. Did your mother deserve it? Will this break her heart and crush her soul? Well, of course. But you just-"

Tiny claws scrabble up and over his boot, sinking into his pants. Flynn looks down, expecting an overprotective lizard, and instead finds the bright eyes of a tawny mouse.

 _"Gah!"_ Flynn slaps a hand after it, but the little bastard scurries upward. His terror only intensifies when Blondie swings her flying pan toward his-

"Don't!"

Rapunzel barely pulls back her weapon in time. Flynn still awkwardly skitters out of striking distance, holding up an arm to prevent the mouse from worming its way up his shirt. Finally he swats it down.

The girl gasps, sinking down to help the poor, rabid little bastard. But the mouse only pops up, squeaks furiously at Flynn, and darts back into the bushes. They stare after it, then back to the hoarse, scratchy little sound of Rapunzel's pet in utter hysterics.

"Yeah, yeah," Flynn grumbles. "Get it out of your system." Plaintively he stares after Blondie's long trail of hair, winding its way into the wood. "How come all the woodland critters are coming after me today? They should be tangled up inside your hair by now!"

Rapunzel proudly runs a hand through her shining locks. "I brush it out every day. There's nothing for them to caught in."

Flynn might keep his hair short, but he remembers one vain not-a-man who brushed and oiled his hair religiously, because it was a frizzy, unholy nightmare after any night they spent by the roadside. After hours tugged through trees and snarled over rocks, Rapunzel's hair should be hell on earth. Instead he splutters indignantly after those long, perfect strands.

Something larger than a rodent rustles in the bushes. Flynn freezes. Rapunzel clings to his back like an octopus, waving their one weapon over his shoulder.

"What is it? Ruffians, thugs?"

Out hops a bunny rabbit.

Well, a hare. But same basic principal; a big-eared, fluffy-tailed critter, deadly to vegetables and little else. It stares up at them in what Flynn fancies to be deadpan disbelief before continuing on its way.

"Stay calm," he drawls. "It can probably smell fear."

Rapunzel laughs self-consciously, releasing her stranglehold on his neck. "Oh, sorry. Getting just a little bit... jumpy."

Isn't _that_ an idea. "Probably be best if we avoid ruffians and thugs, though."

"Yeah, that's probably best."

The easiest option is the truth; the knife in his boot, dropping the charm, and flat-out admitting no lanterns are worth his life or _his_ crown. Because, when the cards are down, Flynn Ryder is a ruffian and a thug. He learned from the very best. Just because he can't terrify like the old bastard can doesn't Rapunzel might ever want to leave her tower again after seeing his true colors.

This is also a girl outside her cramped home for the first time ever, the same that trusted a total stranger's promise, who had clung to him in utter sincerity he would protect her from the big bad hare. Flynn and innocence don't run in the same circles anymore. And yet...

There's a gentler option, one that does all the convincing for him the outside world is a big, cruel place, that Flynn Ryder is a hero for escorting Rapunzel back to her tower. Of course he takes the coward's way out.

"Are you hungry? I know a great place for lunch."

"Where?"

Flynn grabs for her hand, barely correcting course to snag her frying pan instead. "Oh, don't you worry. You'll know it when you smell it."

* * *

Maximus might not have the nose of the bloodhound, but his intelligence and tenacity are far superior. Once he carried kings and conquerors into battle. In this age he serves them still, carrying out the law and order of Corona. Eventually and inevitably, he will succeed in apprehending the perpetrator, and see justice done.

He could not succeed in protecting Corona's lost princess nor in tracking her down. For all the joy that surrounded her birth, so had the wicked and jealous despised the kingdom gaining a clear heir. The plot that stole her away was choked by greed and darkness, a spell too foul to weave through. But still Corona believes in her survival, her return. Her crown stands as promise the rightful heir will return one day to claim her throne and shield her people against the ambitions of empires.

Come hell or high water, Maximus will return their hope.

The stallion pauses in his tracking, peering up from the ground to stare at a wanted poster far from the main roads. Corona is especially desperate for this 'Flynn Ryder.'

Maximus stares long and hard at that face. He knows that smarmy grin from somewhere. It almost, _almost_ comes to him, and yet...

Impulsively he raises a hoof to blot out that awful nose. The spell breaks.

Maximus vengefully chews up the glamored poster. The Highwayman's protections are wearing thin, if he thinks just messing with noses can protect a favorite thief from the hangman's noose.

Then his ears snap to the heavy, plodding footsteps of a human figure. Speak of the devil.

With a furious bugle he erupts out of hiding. And startles a random peasant woman.

Maximus wilts in embarrassment, huffing to himself. Emerging from her shock, the woman peers suspiciously at him.

"Oh, a palace horse. Where's your rider?"

Oops. So _that's_ he forgot.

No matter. His captain will claim credit for Flynn's capture soon enough.

The woman's eyes fly open. "Rapunzel," she gasps, rushing back into the woods.

...What?

Maximus tilts his head after her, utterly at a loss as to what the hell 'Rapunzel' is supposed to mean. Isn't that a vegetable?

The woman looked most distressed. He's almost stirred to help her, but the kingdom's very soul is at stake. So the stallion sticks his nose to the earth, snuffs after the thief's scent, and returns to higher priorities.

* * *

Corona is a small kingdom, a moderate stretch of lands centralized around its bustling port. It's still large enough for two antithetical forces to peacefully avoid each other like the plague. They're still tune enough with the other to be subconsciously aware of the other's location, and thus take care to be at the opposite edge of the kingdom. When need drives Miguel to the city Tulio slinks off to escape wanted posters. When the heat dies down, and prayers shift to the countryside, they migrate on opposite roads without ever having to meet.

There are still places Miguel avoids on basic principal, dark alleys and dens of iniquity where the Highwayman reigns supreme. In turn Tulio skitters around folk healers and shrines by the road where Saint Shepherd is still given due deference.

But for his little girl, Miguel would waltz into hell itself and back out with a smile. Corona's greatest cesspit, where suspicion and intrigue hang their thickest, is nothing in comparison.

"...The Snuggly Duckling?"

Miguel tilts his head at the pub sign. That does not change the fuzzy little yellow duckling painted there.

Tulio sweeps a hand over its delightfully ramshackle exterior. "It's convincingly innocuous, isn't it? Just like any good thieves' den should be!"

"...Well, yes and no."

"Yeah," Tulio sighs. "The founder plays dumb a bit too well, if you know what I mean."

Miguel snorts a laugh, one that withers the moment Flynn succeeds in talking Rapunzel inside, to receive the fright of her life. Like any good father, Miguel rolls up his sleeves and-

-Chokes as Tulio snags his metaphorical shirt collar, because they aren't even quite on the physical plane right now. "No."

"He's-"

"My kid."

"You-"

"My place."

" _Oh, come on!"_

"My rules."

Miguel deflates. Not like he has much power here anyway. Then he catches himself doing that stupid pout, so he huffs and plasters his firmest frown over it. "Keep your thieves leashed, won't you?"

They invisibly follow their children. Behind the pub's benign facade is the dark, dingy truth. The sharp eyes of its denizens fixate on Rapunzel like sharks scenting blood. Flynn only chums up the water by pointed out their roughest features, makes his terrified companion the center of attention.

"Gods damn it, Flynn," Tulio mutters. He reaches into hearts and minds, yanking back their worst tendencies. Hands stop grasping for Rapunzel's hair and reaching for weapons. "Why are just digging yourself a deeper-"

The beefcake with the horned helmet squints at a wanted poster, splaying his hand to block out that distracting nose. "Is this you?"

Any son of Tulio's should be able to talk his way out of this, convince the whole damn pub the one who first accused is indeed the accused himself. Instead Flynn shoves the man's away and splutters at that lame attempt to conceal his identity. "Ugh, no you're just being mean!"

Tulio winces. "Should've laid it on thicker." He and Miguel twitch as the mood in the room sharpens. "Oh, f-"

"Oh, it's him all right," rumbles the man who shoves his hooked hand an inch from Flynn's exposed throat. "Greno, go find some guards. That reward is going to buy me a new hook."

Tulio grits his teeth and tries to rein back their greed, but the tide has overwhelmed the quiet, urgent whispers that they're all wanted criminals too and about to blow their best hiding place. They close in like wolves around a wounded deer, snatching for his son as they snarl over their cut of the bounty. Even Miguel tries to reach out, a rational whisper beside Tulio's, and winces back from their collective pigheadedness.

Tulio's mortification drops into something else, as the shadows loom and the hearth fire is smothered by his hand. A few of the thieves, those Miguel touched most, glance to the guttering flames in dawning realization. Hook Hand, about to punch Flynn's race in, is oblivious to the dark tendrils reaching for his-

"Put him down!" Rapunzel shouts, above the chaos and impending bloodshed. Miguel gapes. The crowd stares. Even Tulio turns, the shadows receding for the firelight. Heedless and honest, Rapunzel carries on. "Okay, I don't know where I am, and I need him to take me to see the lanterns, because I've been dreaming about them my entire life. Find your humanity! Haven't any of you ever had a dream?"

Stunned silence reigns.

Hook Hand abandons Flynn to lurch her way, axe in hand. Some men blink fearfully after him. Most remained spellbound by Rapunzel's sheer guts. Miguel strides forward to...

"I... had a dream. Once."

His courage falters. Words fail.

Song does not. Slowly and uncertainly, in a trembling tone that struggles to find harmony, Hook Hand reveals the heartfelt desire to be a concert pianist.

"...What?" father and son blurt out as one.

Miguel only grins and seizes onto that song. His hands smooth the melody, help the other ruffians find their voices through the inhibitions. Under his sway they join to the choir, move to the dance, belt out the desires long stifled in their souls. In the background Tulio sputters indignantly. Miguel and all the Snuggly Duckling happily ignore him.

Though the crowd is drunk and repressed enough to find catharsis, he cannot sway them entirely. Eventually Hook Hand fixates on Flynn once more. "What about you?"

Flynn splutters. "I'm sorry, _me?"_

Too late does Miguel realize he has perhaps inspired a mania among these men. Tulio stands like that one guy among Bacchus' ecstasies who just doesn't understand why dancing around naked and frantic orgies are all the rage... right before that crowd tears him apart for it. Oops.

When the crowd just reaches that stage, Flynn's complaints cut off at the swords suddenly bared at his throat. Instead, squeaky and off-key, he blurts out his dream for a sunny island, alone but for his enormous piles of money.

Tulio face-palms. Miguel winces in sympathy. Of all the worldly wonders he tried showing his little girl, only floating stars tempted her down.

Then the spell shatters. Everyone turns to stop and stare at the gleeful, oblivious idiot in the doorway. "I found the guards!"

"Gods damn it, Greno," Tulio mutters.

"Gods damn it, Greno!" the closest thieves echo, before the captain of the guards himself shoves his way inside.

Flynn's grave misfortune is Rapunzel's saving grace. Miguel steps forward to whisper in that guard's ear how that girl miraculously resembles the portraits of his lost princess.

All it will cost is a thief's life, unless Tulio has the power to pull _that_ sort of miracle. Tulio's narrowed eyes are fixated on the guards, but also on the handcuffed men who follow in them behind him, as he searches for his own angle.

Miguel bites his lip, and let the people speak.

These rogues and ruffians have found nothing redeemable in Flynn's honest, if narrow-minded, desires. But Rapunzel bore her heart to them, as they have borne theirs in turn. Now her hopes lay at their feet.

And they cannot disappoint her. Not even if her idiot escort is worth more than his weight in gold.

Hook Hand finds them under the table, and delivers them to the safety of a secret passage. "Go," he breathes. "Live your dream."

"I will," Flynn vows.

Hook Hand scowls, but Rapunzel's presence reminds him of long dormant manners. "Your dream stinks. I was talking to her."

In gratitude Rapunzel pecks him on the cheek before fleeing after Flynn. The rogue's hard shell crumbles into sappy fondness as he shuts the passage behind them.

Miguel sighs, glancing aside to find Tulio staring at him. "W-What? She's a grown woman! And _he_ turned his world upside down to give her a chance. If it was me, I'd have thanked him-"

"You saved his life."

Miguel squints after the noble ruffian. "Hook Hand's?"

"My son's." Tulio gropes a hand after him, before rethinking and just crossing his arms instead. He stares out into the soldiers searching the pub in vain. "He's worth a king's ransom right now. And you just..."

He laughs, heartily slapping the thief across the back in clear, unambiguous camaraderie. "Nonsense, old boy! I was just working with what was already there."

"...Spontaneous song and dance was _already there_?"

Miguel winces as something else dawns on him. "Well..."

He trails off as another figure appears on the threshold, forcing his way through hapless guards and the rogues trying to stall. Maximus stares right through them.

_"Oh, come on!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mice are sacred to Apollo and hares to Hermes-Mercury :p
> 
> Given the bloodstains the animators sneaked by on some of those character clothes, yeah. There was some magic happening in the Snugly Duckling that day. Because this fic ain't quite a Disney movie. And Flynn isn't always a smooth talker. 
> 
> Apollo is a god of song and dance :p And brother to Bacchus, the same lovely god who drove people into mass frenzy for shits and giggles. Those who didn't go with the flow had a habit of getting themselves ripped apart.


	10. let your power shine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miguel accidentally goes a little overboard.

Gothel is a solitary predator, one who knows how to watch and wait. She hangs back by the pub window as the guards and stallion charge down that opened tunnel, with the two meathead brothers not far behind. A woman knows when she's outnumbered. As the ruffians finally clear out takes her spot and waits for suitable prey.

She need not wait very long.

He is half her size, a drunken little sot without the wit to properly clothe himself.

"I got a dream, I got some dream. I-" Even as a shadow of her full glory, Gothel's curves catch his eye and hold it, though from such a repulsive little troll it's more insult than anything else. "Oh, somebody get me glass, 'cause I just found me a tall drink of water."

It takes Gothel all of one second to decide her strategy.

"Oh stop it, you big lug." Out comes her blade, to near pop his bulbous red nose. "Where's that tunnel lead out?"

"Knife!"

"Sacrificial knife," she corrects sweetly. "I preferred lambs back in the day, but I can always make an exception."

"H-Hey, witch lady, you're best off botherin' somebody else."

She arches an unimpressed brow. "Oh?"

"I see saints, witch lady, same I see angels and demons and the Highwayman. And-"

"I believe we were on the subject of tunnels."

The troll dutifully blurts out the answer, before urging her to repent.

His argument might have been more amusing if he did not smell of gin and urine.

* * *

The smugglers' tunnels are for handy escape routes and stirring illicit alcohol. Those not privy to such sensitive information become part of the decor, as the impaled skeleton leaning against the wall can state. The Snugly Duckling's snugly facade should go no deeper than their poorly thought-out name, and yet...

Facing a grim reminder of his own mortality, Flynn sighs and turns to the woman who saved him from the noose. "Well, that got us safe. Didn't know you had that in you back there."

Anyone who can con a pub of rogues out of the ransom to end all ransoms should definitely consider it a career. But that had _not_ been a con. Rapunzel had spoken from the heart, put her own life on the line, all for a stranger she blackmailed into showing her floating lights. Even if it must have terrified her.

"I know!" Rapunzel squeals, eyes wide and slightly manic. Belatedly she clears her throat, frying pan coyly held behind her back. "Er, I know... So, Flynn? Where are you from?"

Small talk. Ugh. Flynn winces as he remembers the bag of hot air who bragged to marks about hailing everywhere from Spain to Arcadia, but never told a peep of the truth to his own damned son.

"Whoa, whoa. Sorry, Blondie, I don't do that story." So, because he actually is curious, he turns the tables. "However I am becoming very interested in yours. Now I... know I'm not supposed to mention the hair."

"Nope."

"Or the mother."

"Nuh-uh."

"...Father?"

Puzzled silence answers him. Flynn turns back at the twisted mess of emotion flooding across her face.

"It's..."

"Complicated?" At her grateful nod, he sighs. "Story of my life." 

Oops, has he said that last apart aloud? Rapunzel brights hopefully, so he counters once more.

"Frankly I'm too scared to ask about the lizard."

"Chameleon."

"Gila monster," he huffs, as that real itch just won't stop nagging him. "Here's my question: if you want to see the lanterns so badly, why haven't you gone before?"

Rapunzel's fumble for words is not a good start. Even the li- sorry, _chameleon,_ seems at a loss. This proves to be a lovely start to a fresh level of hell. The pebbles at their feet shake from the force pounding down the tunnel. As they round their corner their leader reveals himself to be the same lovely man Flynn knocked from the saddle just that morning.

Galloping behind them, with murder in his eyes, is fucking _Maximus._

"Uh, Flynn, who's that?"

"They don't like me," he deadpans.

Rapunzel bends to scoop up her many yards of hair. Flynn hurries her along, trailing at her heels to make her keep up. Like hell is he leaving her to them.

From darkness they emerge over a gorge, the river a tiny stream ahead and behind a lake dammed up behind a leaky wall. Flynn scales the riverbed. Tucked into the canyon wall is an old mine shaft. A ladder leads down there. If they can climb it fast enough, then maybe-

The Stabbington Brothers kick their way free from another shaft, murder in _their_ eyes.

"Who's that?"

"They don't like me either."

Flynn whirls. Past their outcrop the dam continues on. Maybe there's another way out that way. Not that they can even try before the search party catches up. With a deep, furious whinny Maximus stomps his way front and center.

"Who's _that?"_

Flynn seizes her shoulders before he can strangle back his worst hysteria. "Let's just assume for the moment everyone here doesn't like me."

He glances back toward certain death, only to grunt from a frying pan to the gut.

"Here."

Blondie shoves her weapon into his hands. Then she throws her hair like a lasso. It wraps around an old beam, leveraging the perfect swing across the gorge to the safety of the opposite side. Flynn stares after her, unable to help his lips quirking up. Even if he just got left to die that's one hell of a surprise.

"I've waited a long time for this," snarls the captain.

Flynn considers his one weapon. It ain't exactly a rapier. Then the swords start swinging his way. Since beggars can't be choosers, he throws up his frying pan and swings it with all he has. Despite the absurdity of the situation his old fencing lessons come flooding back to him. It's almost like the old bastard is right there, shouting when to duck and parry and riposte.

When it's all over, a gasping Flynn blinks down at the groaning pile of opponents, and whistles in newfound appreciation. "Oh mama, I have got to get me one of these." With a gleeful laugh he swings out to block the blade of his next challenger. "Hah!"

His last foe standing is Maximus. The horse. The horse gripping a dagger's hilt in his teeth like he knows how to use it. Several wild thrusts later proves he very much does, as Flynn grapples against an opponent without opposable thumbs.

"You should know," he calls to Rapunzel, "this is the strangest thing I've ever gotten to-" With a final swing Maximus knocks the frying pan from his hands, to sail over the gorge. "How about two out of three?"

In the end Flynn throws up his end and surrenders to a stallion. This. This is how he dies.

...Admittedly the horse is a surprise.

"Flynn!"

Then salvation, warm and golden as sunshine, wraps around his arm. With one last salute to a worthy opponent, Flynn seizes his miracle, and never lets it go.

* * *

"Hah! You should see your faces because you look-"

Miguel winces as Tulio's kid slams gut-first into a beam. Hubris gets 'em every time.

...Well, at least Rapunzel is safe.

Until Maximus kicks down a beaming holding that precarious dam up to make himself and his men a bridge. Miguel's eye twitches as the stallion charges after _his_ kid.

In the blink of an eye he's there. Rapunzel swings away, the arc of her hair trailing. Maximus lunges after it. His jaws snap close an inch too late, as a hand wrenches him back by the tail. With a furious squeal he turns on that invisible opponent. Miguel has already drifted back up to where Tulio perches upon the dam.

Rapunzel will never be a prisoner. Not now, not ever again. She will return to Corona willingly, or not at all.

"That's your big miracle?"

Miguel shrugs. He considers his daughter, swinging her way down. Flynn has the sense and grace to slide down the dam's rickety channel. Maxius and the soldiers are left stranded in the cliffs above. "It's all they needed, isn't it?"

Blue eyes flick down. "What about the Stabbingtons?"

Miguel blinks. "Um..."

Tulio groans, wearily rising to stand. "I've got this."

Miguel realizes upon which they sit. He pushes the other spirit down as he stands tall and firm. "No, Tulio, _I_ got this."

Here is the same river that christened him, that washed away dark hate and darker thoughts when he carried an old woman across its rushing waters. It granted him a new name, new life and new purpose. Perhaps it can once more grant those in need another chance.

_"Are you nuts?"_

He smiles, putting a finger to those doubting lips. "Have faith."

Miguel thrusts his palm downwards. Those who once hailed him as raiser of walls in turn called him Destroyer. What is wrought may be undone. And this sad old dam is already coming unraveled. His power only finds that last little thread and yanks. Stone walls and wooden supports crumbling so rapidly is all neglect and gravity, the rage of a river chained too long.

The deluge watches soldiers and sinners away, to harmlessly wash them up further downstream.

Flynn and Rapunzel do not trust the surface. Under the shadow of a collapsing spire they make it to a mine shaft. The flood washes massive stones over the entrance, so that no foe may ever hope to follow.

"...Hey, Miguel? That shaft has another exit, right?"

Miguel blinks downward. "Um..."

_"Miguel?"_

Green eyes go hazy as he peers into what he still can of the future. "Well, yes and no."

_"MIGUEL!"_

* * *

Steadily and ruthlessly, water seeps in through the cracks in the stone. Rapunzel tries to scramble deep inside. There isn't far to run. The tunnel to this mine collapsed long ago. She braces against the side, Pascal clinging to her shoulder, as the black waters rise.

Flynn inhales and dives down. She scrambles toward the ceiling as the frigid water chase her bare feet. Her frying pan back in hand, she smacks against the rocks in hopes of opening a passage. Rapunzel only pounds harder when Flynn emerges, gasping for breath and no light in his eyes.

Flynn pushes his way past her, straining against the smallest stone on the pile. He gasps raggedly when he only slices his hand on a jagged edge. Down he dives.

The water is up to their waists when he resurfaces. "It's no use. I can't see anything."

Despite having no idea how to swim, Rapunzel tries to to dive down, to find the escape his hands are too large and clumsy to find. When he wrenches her up ten seconds later, she's hacking ice cold water from her lungs. They won't have luxury much longer.

"Hey," he murmurs, hands firm yet gentle on her shoulders. "There's no point. It's pitch black down there."

"This is all my fault," Rapunzel blurts out, as everyone of Mother's warnings come flooding back far too late. "She was right. I-I never should have done this. I'm so... I'm so sorry, Flynn."

"...Eugene."

Rapunzel blearily opens her eyes, plan to spend the rest of her life sobbing for forgiveness temporarily on hold. "What?"

"My real name is... Eugene Fitzherbert." Despite the dark, his sheepish smile is all too clear. "So you might as well know."

Such honesty deserves a secret just as precious. "I have magic hair that glows when I sing."

"...What?"

"I have... magic hair that glows when I sing!" With her last gasps of air, Rapunzel throws them all into song and desperate, threadbare hope. _"Flower gleam and glow. Let your power shine."_

She shuts her eyes as black, creeping cold envelops them. On her last breath she braces for the end. At Eugene's stifled yelp, she cracks open her eyes to sunlight. Golden power flows down her hair like a comet. Its end, faintly pulled by the current, drifts for another rock pile.

Eugene swims for them. Rapunzel mimics his motions as best she can. These rocks are small enough to be hauled aside. She helps Eugene do so, pushing them further aside so he has more room to tear at the next.

Maybe it's the lack of oxygen, but it almost sounds like there are more rocks being thrown on the other side.

Then Eugene wrenches his arm free. As he squeezes his way through, the pile collapses.

In a roar of water, they tumble into the twilight beyond.

* * *

Rapunzel and his kid haul themselves ashore, hacking up water but more or less unharmed. Even the chameleon pops up. Since they look mostly harmed Tulio remains on the opposite bank, invisible to their senses, to help the idiot folk saint cough up half a river.

"Hey, Miguel?"

He hums a reply, before gargling on yet more water. Tulio slaps his back, frowning at the massive boulder shoved aside from what had nearly become their children's tomb. How many years, if not decades, of carefully accrued power had such a feat burned through?

"Hm?" Miguel croaks.

"Let's... just call ourselves even on everything that happened today."

The idiot manages a weak thumbs up. As his breathing evens out Tulio scooches a less awkward space away.

"H-Hey... Tulio?"

"Yeah?"

"How'd you raised... your kid... out of a tower... all these years?"

Tulio considers their offspring, and the many twists and turns life took to bring them here. "Poorly."

Green eyes search his own, before flicking across the riverbank. "Not where it counts."

Tulio shrugs noncommittally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point forward there are two ways I could see this story ending. I've hinted at a broader conflict I could bring in, but Tangled itself is more... personal in scope than Road to El Dorado, where a civilization was at risk depending on how those three idiots solved their relationship problems. In the immediate scope, Tangled revolves around Rapunzel and Flynn/Eugene.
> 
> I plot by the seat of my pants, but I've been building up their pasts and personal relationships here (same with Miguel and Tulio) than the broader world-building. 
> 
> So I'm gonna go with my gut for this story. And maybe plan a sequel down the road to explore concepts and conflicts this one laid down once our characters can stop looking inwards and are confident enough to start looking outwards.


	11. strangely cryptic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone really needs to learn proper communication.

Blondie's hair glows, _actually_ glows.

...Not that Flynn's about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Today he dueled a horse, got tongued by a chameleon, and was kidnapped by a beautiful woman with hair long enough to climb up. Hair that never tangles or dirties as it should. The fact it glows should be the least of his worries.

Only apparently that's not all Rapunzel's hair can do. Pascal smiles at him the whole time he sets up a campfire for the night.

In the end Flynn runs out of excuses. He plops down beside Rapunzel to let her do her... thing.

"So you're being strangely cryptic as you wrap your magic hair around me injured hand." Too snugly. He grunts when she tugs it a bit too tight.

"Sorry. Just... don't freak out."

With that wonderful assurance, Rapunzel starts to sing. Now that neither of them are gasping for their lives, Flynn can properly appreciate her lilting voice, and the sight of her hair glowing at its roots before flowing down the strands. Her verse continues, but Flynn's eyes are only for following that trail of light.

As the strands next to Pascal shine, the little bastard smirks, gesturing to his own paw. Flynn gapes down at his injured hand, as the pain ebbs away before a warmth like high summer, one that fills him to the bone.

When the magic dies down with the song, Flynn unwraps his palm to discover unmarred flesh, not even a scar left behind. After turning his hand over several times to insure he simply hasn't just gone insane, he inhales sharply.

Rapunzel shrinks back, eyes wide and anxious. "Don't freak out."

He sucks back his scream, plastering on his widest, most terrified smile. "I'm not freaking out," he squeaks. "Are you freaking out?" He rests his bewitched palm against his chin, before realizing the strangeness might spread. Flynn settles for stuffing his hands firmly under his armpits, blabbering all the while. "Oh, that's very interesting hair. Why is it possessed? Um, I mean, how long has it been doing that?"

"Forever, I guess. Mother said when I was a baby people tried to cut it." Her grimacing attempt at a smile dies when she brushes her hair aside, revealing a single curled strand of dull brown. "But once it's cut it turns brown, and loses its power. A gift like that... it has to be protected. That's why Mother never let me... That's why _I..._ I never left the..."

"You never left the tower," he blurts out, and finally understands what it means.

He remembers sheer stone walls without a door, only a single window, and a cluttered room painted up to the ceiling. Her sheer joy and sheer terror of things him and every other child had taken for granted since infancy.

_And you're going to lock yourself away again?_

"And... And you're still gonna go back?"

"No. Yes?" She sighs into her hands, as Pascal leans consolingly against her foot. "It's complicated."

What does her father think of this arrangement? Is he a jailer or long dead? Which parent is the magic parent here?

Flynn bites his tongue, and lets Rapunzel return to the here and now. She smiles coyly as the tables turn once more. "So, Eugene Fitzherbert, huh?"

"Yeah," he chuckles. "My... My old man had a crappy taste of names, let me tell you. But I'll spare you the details. It's a... a little bit of a downer, considering all the parental issues we've already dredged up tonight. But there was this book. We wandered around pretty much all around the kingdom, so much so I got bored of traveling. So he - I nicked books for myself. I traded them all off, except the one read every night. _The Tales of Flynnigan Ryder._ Swashbuckling rogue, richest man alive."

He pauses, but can't help but cough off, "And not bad with the ladies." Rapunzel giggles, so he musters up the courage to soldier on. "Was he a thief too? Well, no. Born noble, actually. Only child, long dead parents, enough money and power to do whatever he wanted to do. He could go anywhere he wanted to go, without anyone to tell him otherwise. For a kid in... in my situation, it just seemed like a better option."

Well, not the dead parent part. But it had hurt more to read about heroes with actual parents, even those that had no impact on the actual story. Flynnigan Ryder had breezed right over his origins, not like certain other characters that spent the whole book lamenting ghosts or avenging murdered fathers.

"You can't tell anyone about this, okay?" he half-jokes. "It could ruin my whole reputation."

And make people wonder more about that crappy caretaker of his. Just because his old man is dead _to him_ doesn't mean Flynn wants him strapped to a pyre or something.

Rapunzel smiles. "Ah. Well, you wouldn't want that."

Flynn blinks. Rapunzel is still gazing into his eyes, expression earnest. Only then does he realize exactly what she's agreeing with.

Realizing how close they've drifted, he clears his throat and stands. "Oh, that thing about the reputation. Right! It's all a man has and all. I... I should get some more firewood."

"Hey." Despite himself Flynn turns. "For the record, I like Eugene Fitzherbert much better than... Flynn Ryder."

Flynn's face twists before settling on something like a wry smile. "Well, then you'd be the first. But thank you."

Once his back to those sincere green eyes, Flynn lets his emotions run themselves ragged. What would the old bastard think of his name change? Would he be proud Flynn finally became his own man? Disappointed he severed the last of their relationship or just for Flynn's lack of originality in his choice?

Dragging a hand down his face, he shoves such stupidity aside, and goes to find some firewood.

* * *

"Magic hair, huh?"

Miguel sighs, beaming at his daughter like she brought a man back to life instead of heal a sliced palm. "That's one word for it."

They've each had a lot stranger kids than daughters with enough hair to clothe a town. Yet Rapunzel is the first child Tulio can remember with hair longer than Miguel's was back in the day. Or have healing power manifest through that hair. Tulio shrugs and let it be.

He wearily rises up from the riverbank. With Flynn and Rapunzel bedding down for the night it's time to do the same.

Miguel staggers up after him. "W-Where are you going?"

Tulio rolls his eyes. "Some of us still gotta eat." That forlorn look does not change. "Oh, for the love of - I'll be _back,_ Miguel. My kid's still in mortal peril for the long term, but for tonight you literally washed every conceivable threat away. I won't be far."

As he slips into the night Miguel follows. Tulio holds back his sigh. Rapunzel can probably use a night of privacy without her father creepily watching over how she might explore her newfound freedoms with her dashing new companion. Poor Flynn has been attacked by enough woodland animals today.

And maybe the night seems a little shorter with someone trailing at his heels again.

Not far down the river is a crossroad where two quiet roads converge by the bank. It's an ancient trail that long predates Corona's wide cobbled roads. The stone cairn raised to mark that spot was not consecrated in any of Tulio's names at first. That association had come later, when the Roman arrivals to this land had tried to make homes for their gods. They had felt safer with the patron of travelers and lord of thieves on _their_ side when barbarians had still roamed these woods.

Though the god is gone, the significance remains. The wise traveler knows to leave coin or a bite to eat behind at every crossroad, lest the Highwayman come take his due by force. It never hurts to have a friend on the road ahead.

Tulio grins to discover a small loaf of broad and several honey cakes waiting on the stones. The old-timers in these parts remember their manners.

"Still keeping with the classics, hm?"

He rolls his eyes, snatching up _his_ tribute. "Don't fix what isn't broken."

"Can you eat and walk?"

His eyes narrow. "Why?"

Miguel shrugs innocently. Too innocently. "I have a place just downstream."

Tulio scoffs. "They canonized you now?"

He expects the sad little shepherd to fly into a hissy fit at the reminder he ditched their pantheon for a faith that doesn't even properly acknowledge him. Instead Miguel only grants him a cryptic smile unchanged by the centuries. Tulio's stomach flips.

He follows out of curiosity.

There is no church. Not even a tiny chapel. There is a ramshackle little roof draped in tarnished crosses. In the alcove below is a roughly-hewn statue, garish colors faded in age. Crammed around it are stubs of candles and fresh-picked flowers. Miguel picks up a bouquet of lilies to reach the loaf beneath. In his hands the offering becomes new once more. The night air smells of fresh-baked bread.

"How'd you get away with a _wayside shrine?"_

Miguel proudly pats the shrine. "In a sense they never really went away. At least not around here." His gaze flicks to the tribute. "This is all standard fare, really. And those who can't afford anything else can always leave a bite for the next hungry traveler."

Tulio cocks his head in utter bewilderment. "W-Why you even need all this? Shouldn't you be in eternal communion or whatever?"

The idiot's already ripped into the bread, spewing crumbs when he answers. "Well, yes and no. I'm a link to what some need, but some people just don't _want_ an official link. It's..." He waves a hand.

"Complicated?"

Miguel nods around another mouthful.

As Tulio is _technically_ not heretical, he can indeed tread onto Christian and Jewish holy ground without spontaneously combusting. The religious powers of today do not consider him something to be annihilated. He is a pagan god dreamed up by long-dead country peasants without the grace to realize he should be long dead by now. He is a proud pest, not an actual threat.

Churches smell of incense and self-righteousness, even their solemn silence echoing with a deafening multitude. Miguel's little shrine smells of bread and candle wax.

In they hunker down in the grass between the crossroad and the wayside shrine, tearing into their humble dinners and letting strength flow back into them.

"This is where it happened, you know."

Their tribute long devoured, Tulio peers over at his unwilling companion. Miguel is still sitting up, arms wrapped around his knees. His eyes gaze out to the river.

"...What?"

"The roads shift with time, right? The river changes course and landslides change the landscape around."

Tulio nods. These roads are woven in the fabric of his being. "And?"

"They built their shrine a bit too far downstream from where they should have." Miguel pats the grass beside him. "I was born here. Er, reborn. More or less."

Tulio feels only a quiet patch of grass by the river. Whatever significance left to it continues only on Miguel's heart. "...That story with the old lady true?"

Miguel grins knowingly. "True as we always were, before we weren't. I... I was angry that day, _really_ angry, and spoiling for a fight. Poor Aelia had the misfortune of locking eyes with me."

Tulio snorts. "How'd she survive making eye contact?"

"I exploded in her face for twenty minutes. She barely even blinked. When I'd gotten it all out my system she asked me to carry her across the river. So I did."

Tulio frowns. Before him is the divide, between his old partner and the uncannily familiar stranger before him. _"You_ carried _her?"_

"Yep."

"Without cursing her into a fish or something?"

"Hm-hm."

"Or giving her a plague?"

"Pretty much." Miguel flops onto his back, grimacing skyward. "I was an ass back then."

_"Why?"_

He thinks long and hard, before shrugging once more. "Sometimes they're just like that. Aelia especially. On the other side I got offered another chance. So I took it. And here we are."

Of course the humble old saint showed mercy. That's what they're supposed to do! Why had _he,_ of all deities, swallowed his pride and jumped ship for his own survival? Especially when...

"You were the strongest of us here," Tulio murmurs. "Even above Dad, when it came down to it. All because of those stupid magic flowers. This place _still_ believes in them like Spin does El Dorado. You threw away that sort of power, _your_ power, for..." He swallows back the rest of that scornful question before he robs Flynn of his strongest protector here. "For what, exactly?"

"My life. My name. My freedom." Miguel curls up in the other direction, so that Tulio can only stare at his back. "That power was poison. I wasn't going to let her... um, it, consume me from the inside out any longer. Anything had to have been better than that. _Anything."_ His voice gentles. "And so it was."

Tulio says nothing. Aside from the whispering water and Miguel's ragged breathing, all is silent.

"Thieves."

"...What?"

"Thieves kept me alive. Big surprise. Even the ones that tried to convert and repent often couldn't hack it. They feared for themselves, and what would happen to their souls. And people still feared them, and the roads. It was a symbiotic relationship. Help the Highwayman, the Highwayman helps you." Tulio snorts. "Same basic deal as the old days, a lot less glamor. I help the travelers, the doubters, those who just can't feel like they belong in the world as it is and seek a third option. And so here I am."

"How's... How's that been working out?"

Tulio smirks without humor. "It's a living."

For him. And not anybody else. Flynn's reaped enough consequences of his unconventional upbringing to last ten lifetimes.

"...Tulio?"

"It's Rapunzel's first night outside the tower for... for the first time in forever. Do you think I should-"

"Give the girl her privacy, Miguel." Feeling a little more normal, Tulio wraps his hands under his head, and lets his eyes drift close. "Our kids already made camp for the night and have to be sleeping by now. You washed away everyone that doesn't like my son very much. What's the worst that can happen in the next eight hours?"

* * *

"Well, I thought he'd never leave."

Rapunzel whirls around, heart hammering at that caustic tone. The ice in her blood doesn't quite thaw when that dark figure throws back her hood to reveal it's only-

_"Mother?"_

"Hello, dear."

Rapunzel stands to face her. She tries hard not to glance down at Pascal, who flushes dark brown as if he's just another nob on the tree trunk. Mother sweeps her into a tight embrace and does not even her daughter's first lie ever hides beneath her nose.

"H-How did you-"

"Oh, it was easy really. I just listened to the sound of complete and utter betrayal, and followed that." Rapunzel stammers on something either defense or apology. Mother pulls away, seizing her arm in an iron grip. "We're going home. Now."

Rapunzel should let herself be dragged, should grovel for forgiveness. She is the daughter who broke her mother's trust.

Rapunzel should have two more days of freedom.

She wrenches herself free of Mother's vise. How can she make her understand? "I've been on the most incredible journey. I've seen and learned so much. I even met someone!"

Mother sneers, tossing her hand as if Rapunzel has just made a distasteful joke. "Yes, the wanted thief. I'm so proud."

"Mother, wait." Rapunzel clasps her hands, trying and failing to find the words on how significant Eugene feels, as if she flew up into the sky to dance among the stars. "I think... I think he likes me."

 _"Like you?_ Please, Rapunzel, that's demented." Her stomach churns at that. Something hot and ugly is ready to come spilling out before Mother's arms once more fall around her shoulders. "This is why you never should have left. You haven't known this man a day and you've already concocted a romance with him! It just proves you're not ready to be out here yet. Come on now." Sharp fingers pinch at her cheeks, then pick at her sleeves. "Look at you, that butterball face, that ancient dress. It's not _you_ he wants, dear."

Mother's fingers slide through her hair. Rapunzel freezes, remembering vivid nightmares of men with pointy teeth holding her down to scalp her for her hair. That fire in her stomach can be contained no longer.

"No!"

She wrenches herself free. Mother staggers back as if stricken. Rapunzel cannot muster up a horrified apology before Mother's shock gives way to something else. She stalks close, raising a hand to trail her nail down her face. She jams something over Rapunzel's shoulders before stalking away.

"No? No." Mother laughs, low and spiteful. "I see how it is. Half a day of freedom and you think yourself a clever, grown-up miss. Fine. I suppose this is a lesson you'll need to learn all on your own. See how fast your man stays if you show him _this._ "

From beneath her cloak Mother produces Eugene's golden band and disdainfully flings at it her. Rapunzel barely catches it in time. Those delicate crystals can't take a crash.

"How could you-"

"Trust me, flower, you'll be fortunate if this is _all_ he wants from you. Why don't you go and put him to the test?"

Before Rapunzel can pick through her bewilderment, Mother sweeps up her cloak and whirls into the fog.

"Mother!" Rapunzel cries. "Don't leave!"

At the edge of the wood she pauses only to jeer. "Why, dear, don't _you_ know best?"

And then Rapunzel is alone with Eugene's stolen belongings, and heavy, honest footsteps trampling through the wood. In a blind panic she shoves the headband into the satchel. She barely hides it behind a tree before her escort appears with wood stacked up in his arms. He smiles guilelessly at the sight of her.

"So, um, can I ask you something? Is there any chance I'm gonna get super strength in my hand? Because I'm not gonna lie; that would be stupendous." His cheer falters at the sight of her expression. For her lying is an art rarely practiced. "Hey, are you alright?"

Mother never lets her keep what she really wants. Pascal is only Rapunzel's friend because she hid him from her. And Mother _loves_ her, truly only wants what she thinks best for her flower.

Rapunzel has not known Eugene a full day.

"Oh, sorry, yes." She musters up a smile. "Just lost in thought, I guess."

Eugene stares a moment longer. Then understanding dawns in his deep brown eyes. He grins wider as he tosses down the firewood and plops onto the log.

"I mean, here's the thing; superhuman good looks, born with 'em. Superhuman wits, picked up from the best. But superhuman strength? Imagine the possibilities!"

Eugene prattles on about being able to lift up buildings in his hand or at least swing a rapier super well. He barely breathes as he dreams up a thousand scenarios, just like Rapunzel did with Pascal in the tower to pass the time by wondering what their lives would be like if they were birds in the trees or she had a Daddy instead of a Mother. Eugene tries his best to make her think of anything else except her hair or the tower, for that is all he thinks her world and her fears to be.

Through the satchel crystals of the headband bore accusingly into her soul.

* * *

A dutiful daughter would have crumbled immediately in sobbing apologies. Then again, a dutiful daughter would never have run off at all, would never even have openly expressed the wish after hearing how cruel and ruthless that big, wide world was.

Gothel's done the best with what she had. How is she to correct a brat that inherited both royal entitlement and apparently the divine arrogance of her unwitting second sire?

Behind her the two brutes try to stalk their way forward, because they're small-minded little dolts who care only for short-term gratification. She primly blocks their path.

"Patience, boys. All good things to those who wait."

There are so many better ways to take vengeance over slitting someone's throat and leaving their corpse for the wolves.

So many of those options involving breaking a little flower just enough that she can never hope to stand on her own again.

But there is still the chance Rapunzel might come to her senses, now that the seeds of doubt are free to take root in fertile soil. Gothel is still her mother, after all, and mothers never hurt their children.

They _condition_ them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a lot shared. There is a lot our characters are still burying or dancing around. And we've still gotta crack them all open, because I've got one or two meaningful flash backs waiting a good place to be squeezed in.
> 
> Cairns are used as markers across Europe. Hermes started as a god of them. Roman colonists reaching Corona tried to give these strange new roads more familiar faces. Some stuck around. Heresy involves deviance from orthodox practice of the religion. Tulio was never part in the first place :p He still counts among those filthy, unwashed peasant masses needing enlightenment, and not an outright enemy.
> 
> Wayside and household shrines remain fairly ubiquitous in Catholicism (Bathtub Marys) and Orthodox Christianity. Votive offerings such as candles and crosses are also common depending on the culture. Monarchs back in the day would donate elaborate golden crowns to adorn statues in church and what-not on special occasions. Food isn't as common a tradition, but given Saint Shepherd is a folk saint who caters to the travelers leaving meals for those in need are considered an acceptable substitute to the usual offerings.
> 
> Saints are supposed to be used only as intermediaries between the worshiper and God. As the saints are in eternal communion with the divine they are not to receive worship or direct attention like a pagan idol would. Not that laymen (especially those already beseeching an unofficial saint) distinguish the two so readily :p Miguel is sorta in a position like Dionysus' back in the day before his cult was made official in Greece - practiced in line with the existing religion, but side-eyed at best and all but condemned at worst.
> 
> Rapunzel and Gothel do not consider their dumpster fire of a relationship to be innately wrong. Flynn only has suspicions. Given that Gothel hasn't crossed 'that' line yet (and they already saved their idiot kids' lives like 5 times already), certain things are not yet being picked up on :(


End file.
